Wonka Chronicles II: The Son of Wonka
by Wonkaverse
Summary: The adventures of Wonka continue in space, through an unexpected successor. Rated M for some violence.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** All things pertaining to Charlie and the Chocolate Factory (Oompa-loompa, Wonka, etc) belong to Roald Dahl.

**About this story**: this is the sequel to the adventures of Willy Wonka. Previously the famed candymaker was forced to flee into space in order to escape his battle-hungry competitors. In the Orbital Facility, however, he falls ill. Who could possibly take his place as leader of the Oompa-loompas and creator of the galaxy's best candy?

**A.N**. This story was dredged up from the archives...it's at least a year old, but we want to see what people think of this older writing style. Please comment. Likes, dislikes, or general reviews are important for us to get better at writing.

_For context purposes, the Oompa-loompas call Wonka "Fuhrer" because he is of Germanic descent, not because of his leadership style.  
>Rated M for some violence.<em>

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><p><span> The Son of Wonka<span>

Bright sunlight passed through the polarized window that stripped it of its deadly properties. Its rays, unhindered by the pollutants of the earth's atmosphere, illuminated the room so that it was almost too bright to see. In this chamber of white was a bed, and in this bed lay the dying Wonka. A single Loompa stayed by the side of the bed, sadly observing the deteriorating health of his Fuhrer, and wishing that he had held the foresight to have brought a bottle of Wonka-Vite with him. The emergency flight from the factory had been initiated so quickly, that most of the candy stores had been left behind, including the very element that could save the Fuhrer, who was steadily losing strength through a degenerative disease he had contracted shortly after the enemy's assault on the Antarctic factory. But returning to the factory was no option; all traces of Wonka's former base were gone now, having been totally annihilated by Chadworth's nuke. So now, the Oompa-loompas could only watch helplessly as Wonka's life slowly drained from him. The Oompa that was attending him now bowed his head in capitulation. _The Fuhrer might not make it. But_ _what will we do when_… he couldn't bear to finish the thought. Without their leader, he knew, the Oompa-loompas, the factory, the space base would have no purpose. So who would lead them if- the sound of rustling fabric made him turn, and in the brightness, he saw Wonka sit up weakly and beckon for him to come closer. The Loompa moved quickly, straining to hear what his leader was saying. "Take this," Wonka rasped, withdrawing a vial from within his cloak. The Loompa willingly received the bottle, which was clear like crystal, and held a dark liquid within it. Wonka was breathing heavily now, every breath coming as a gasp. The Loompa, noticing this, urgently reached for the emergency button that would alert the nurse. But Wonka stopped him, taking the Loompa's tiny hand in his own. "It's too late for me, my little friend. But that vial…contains the blueprint for your…new…leader…" His ragged breaths came to a halt, and he fell back against his pillow, the sun shining upon his still, and peaceful face. For a few moments, the Loompa stood still, as if unable to comprehend the fact that his master had just died. He stared at the vial in his hand, confused as to what Wonka had meant. For a while, he just remained in position by the side of the bed, observing the earth as it passed beneath them, continents drifting thousands of kilometers below as the station orbited the globe. Suddenly, a thought came to him, and his heart skipped a beat as he realized what Wonka had asked of him. The Loompa, still clutching the vial, cast one last glance at Wonka. The fact that so great a leader could have met his end in so common a way bothered him greatly. _But we must press on,_ he thought. With a heavy heart, he left the room, unsure of how to tell the attendants that their grand commander was dead. But, holding on to the hope that he was doing the right thing, he adjourned directly to the cloning chamber without bothering to alert them. Once there, he inserted the vial's contents into the computer's dialysis component, where the substance was analyzed. As he gazed at the screen, his hope began to grow. The vial, it seemed, had contained a strain of DNA that very closely matched Wonka's; it appeared that slight modifications had been made to the strand, including the splicing of another person's DNA, and the Loompa assumed that the change had been intentional. Though he didn't yet know it, he was looking at the genetically engineered combination of Wonka's and Charlie Bucket's DNA. Of course, the majority of the traits belonged to Wonka, but at least, in a small way, Charlie Bucket would survive to become the heir of Wonka's assets. The Loompa glanced down at the controls before him, excitement driving him onward. He pressed a button, and the cloning machine before him began to stir, whirring and bubbling as it processed the DNA, and began to create the first human clone. The Loompa watched in awe as the cloning vat frothed and roiled with fluid; he knew that behind the curtain of bubbles, microscopic biological nanodes were piecing together a mass of living tissue. This procedure usually took three hours to create an average Oompa-loompa; seven to create a specially enhanced one. But a human… it was uncharted territory, and the Loompa didn't even know if it was going to work. But his loyalty prevailed, and he waited in the chamber for what seemed like eons, listening to nothing but the churning and buzzing of the machines.

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><p>A loud gurgling woke him, and he realized with shame that he had fallen asleep while waiting for the machine to complete its work. Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he turned toward the source of the sound… to see the activated vat draining of liquid and frilling with steam. He observed in awe, wondering what was going to happen next. Suddenly, a panel of the vat's glass slid open, allowing some of the steam to escape and drift about the chamber. The Loompa held his breath, and was about to move forward to peer into the container, when something stepped out of the mist. The Loompa gasped, not believing his eyes. Though he was naked and dripping wet, Wonka stood, grinning brightly and very much alive. "But… it can't be… the Loompa stuttered. The man looked down at the Oompa, still smiling. It was Wonka, or at least looked like Wonka and shared nearly the same DNA as he had; recognizing the genetic code, the computer had even inserted all the memories that the previous Wonka had held into the clone's neural circuits. Despite these similarities, this man's mind was different; the spirit that had been William Wonka's would never return, not even to his though he Loompa realized this, he still found it somewhat appalling to be looking at the image of his former leader, and it took him several moments to restrain his incredulity. He cleared his throat, more from nervousness than to get the man's attention, and spoke. "I assume you are William Wonka?" The man frowned slightly. "No; William Wonka was my… father. I am Charlie... Charlie Wonka." The Loompa bowed respectfully, understanding now what the former Wonka had intended. "Of course, Mr. Wonka. But allow me to fetch you some clothes; you must feel chilly." The new Wonka glanced down at himself, unconcerned by his exposed appearance. "Very well. But do please remember to address me as Fuhrer; after all, I am your leader." The Loompa nodded. "Certainly, my Fuhrer. He smiled to himself as he turned to complete his first task under the new commander. <em>The reign of Wonka is far from over. <em>

Countles

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><p>s pinpricks of light blazed brightly against the black velvet of deeper space, creating a dramatic backdrop for the first interspace funeral. The thousands of Oompa-loompas had gathered on the observatory deck of the massive space factory to watch as the body of their beloved Fuhrer was sent off into the unknown. With downcast eyes, they gazed on as a procession of Loompas bore the airtight coffin, which contained their deceased leader, into the center of the docking bay. The pallbearers set the bluish-black metal sarcophagus down gently, as if mindful of their leader inside it, then retreated to the control room, where Charlie Wonka stood, poised at the controls. Glancing at the screen that depicted the surveillance from the docking bay, he verified that the chamber was clear. He positioned his hand over a switch, but hesitated. He looked back at the Loompas that stood behind him, uncertainty in his eyes. "Do you think this is what my father would have wanted?" the question hung in the air, unanswered except by the beeps and whirring of the machinery. The Loompas glanced at each other, unsure of whether the question had been rhetorical or required an actual response. But Charlie glanced back again, this time his hard expression demanding an answer. "Well?""Of course, my Fuhrer," one Loompa piped up nervously, aware that even though their eccentric ruler was gone, his legacy and genius would live on through his genetic copy. The other Loompas in the room nodded as well, catching on to the idea that this new leader was much like the old, someone who demanded respect, and would use his peculiarity to achieve it. Satisfied by the answer, Charlie flipped the switch, opening the docking bay's main hatch and allowing the vacuum of space to have its way with the sudden change in pressure. He and the Loompas looked on as the coffin was pulled out of the bay through the open passageway, and was propelled into the infinite blackness of outer space.<p>

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><p>The Oompa-loompa glanced about himself as he walked steadily down the hall, the turning of his head revealing gruesome scars that cut across his face. Observing the way that the interior of this new factory so resembled that of the last, he hearkened back to the days prior to the launching of the Space Program, before the Destruction of Chadworth's factory. He relived memories from when he had been a captain in the WSP, and remembered all the escapades that he had undertaken on the Fuhrer's behalf. So much had happened since then; so much had been sacrificed; so many had lost their lives. And for what? For the Fuhrer to die the death of a common civilian and for the entirety of the Oompa-loompa race to be sent into exile in outer space! He gave a snort of derision as he came to stand before the door that would lead to the new leader's office. He didn't know why he had been summoned there, nor did he really care. What he <em>did<em> know was that there would be no need for any military any longer, since Wonka and his nemesis were finished, and they were alone in the vastness of space. Besides, any occupation outside the field he had previously occupied simply did not hold any interest for him. He thought about how it would be if he lived the life of a common worker Loompa, and shivered in disgust at the notion. _It would have been better if I had died with my men in battle.  
><em>The door slid open, and the Loompa stepped in, having a reminiscence of the time when he and his team had reported to William Wonka in the same fashion. But this time, he was alone; and this time, the leader he had been created to serve was gone. He marched up to the desk, determined to demonstrate to this new leader that he was fit only for war, and that any attempt to set him to a lower task would be futile. "Heil, Fuhrer!" He spoke the words without meaning to, showing how deeply his training ran through his veins. He snapped a crisp salute, his obstinacy bared for the new leader to see. _I won't change, I refuse to–_ his thought stopped there, because the new leader's face suddenly appeared from behind the desk, and the Loompa's stiff pose faltered as he laid eyes on the man for the first time. "You... are…" He stuttered, his eyes growing wide.  
>"Yes, it is I, Wonka. Not the same man that you were familiar with, but the new, improved me." The Fuhrer said, smiling broadly.<br>"But… they told me you died…"

Here, Wonka's smile straightened, and his tone became condescending. "I am more than what I seem, OS-22, just as you are." The Loompa stiffened when he was addressed by his field designation, but he remained silent. "I have read your file, and it is a very impressive record that you hold. In your short life, you have successfully completed several missions for the betterment of the regime, both on land and in sea; you have had the greatest field training of any agent affiliated with this organization; you have attained the rank of captain; and, for unknown reasons, you volunteered to be the first living creature to undergo a period of cryogenic sleep. Is this not so?" The Loompa nodded uneasily. "They pulled me out of the cryogenic stasis a few days ago…" Wonka grunted understandingly. "Yes, unfortunately, I was not able to attend your reanimation, but I hear that it is quite a thing to see… almost like being raised from the dead." The Loompa caught the glint in Wonka's eyes as he said this, and a chill ran down his spine; he wondered for a moment if the man before him had actually died and was the evil reincarnate of the Fuhrer. Wonka noticed the Loompa's discomfort, and broke into a reassuring grin. "But none of us will ever know, will we?" the Loompa nodded again, this time, his eyes directed anywhere except at Wonka. "Now," the Fuhrer said, settling into his chair, "There is a reason I called you up here." The Loompa waited in dreading anticipation for his leader's proclamation. "Recent astronomical studies have shown evidence that there _is_ life other than our own in this galaxy. Did you know that?" "I didn't–" "Of course, you didn't. No one does… well, I do, and now you do, and so do the scientists…anyway, from the studies conducted in the former Antarctic base, and the more recent studies performed here, it can be deduced that alien beings are closer to Earth than we thought." Wonka paused, and noted the confusion on the Loompa's face. "Take the alien gummy bear incident, for example. The fragment of metal that allowed us to synthesize the ultra-tough material used to build this station had to come from somewhere, as did the glowing mass that enabled us to produce those living bears. For all we know, aliens have been coming to earth for years; most just get burned up in the earth's atmosphere upon entry."  
>"I see." The Loompa said. "But what does this have to do with me?"<p>

Wonka looked directly at him, his sea-blue eyes twinkling, yet serious. "I have chosen you for your stellar record, your unmatched skill, and your extraordinary experience. They say that my father thought very highly of you."

The Loompa's brow furrowed in question. "Father?"

Wonka tipped his head to the side. "So they didn't tell you… William Wonka is my father. I am Charlie Wonka, his son and genetic copy." "Oh." with this revelation, the Oompa relaxed considerably, glad that he was not in some devilish nightmare where the living dead reigned. "I have chosen you, because even though the threats from Chadworth are over, we have other things to worry about." "Things like?"

Wonka pointed toward a window, and the Loompa peered out. He was able to see the stars, the moon, and the earth looming below. "Look there," Wonka said, and the Loompa glanced in the direction in which he was pointing. He was able to see a large mass of metal, glinting dully in the light of the sun, and clusters of smaller metallic structures, all trapped in the gravitational pull of the earth. "A space station?"

"And satellites," Wonka added. "I'm not too worried about CNN finding us, but some of those birds look like leftovers from the Cold War; some may host an array of deadly weapons, spying devices, and other things that may prove harmful to us should the people on earth decide to remove us from the airspace. I wouldn't be surprised if they spotted us already and are making plans to confront us somehow." Wonka looked further out into the ether, past the curvature of the Earth. "And, aside from domestic trouble, we may have problems from foreign entities. With the discovery of alien life, the time may come when we will have to defend this station from attack." The Loompa considered this, and agreed. "So what do you want me to do?" Wonka turned to face him. "You are to become the Commander of my military forces. I will trust you to do what is best for the base, and for me. You are to ward off all enemies, both human …and extra-terrestrial." The Loompa paused, regarding the proposition, then saluted, his eyes shining with excitement. "Proud to be of service, my Fuhrer."

Wonka dipped his head in reply. "Go, and organize the forces to your discretion." The Loompa nodded, then left. Charlie Wonka, unaccompanied, gazed through the window at the rotating globe, suspended in the infinite blackness of space. _All we can do now is wait… and make candy..._

_Houston, Texas, 01:23 AM._

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><p>One man sat at the desk, alone except for his computer and the thermos of coffee that sat next to his mouse. Most everyone had gone home by now, except for the unlucky few who had been chosen to work the night shift; "unlucky" meaning people like him. His name was James Randall; it said so on the name placard that he was required to keep on his desk so that the people who came to visit would know how to address him when they asked their menial questions. Frankly, James didn't think that the placard was necessary; most of the people who even bothered to address him referred to him as "nerd" or "loser". It wasn't enough that he worked in one of the greatest aerospace institutes in the world, or that he had one of the brightest minds in the country; he still emerged as a social outcast, even among the brainiacs. For three years now, he had toiled at the bottom of the ladder of NASA's payroll; for three years he had been overlooked for promotion. <em>Well, not this year<em>. Even as he worked the tedious hours required of him, he promised himself that he would get that promotion and prestige no matter what it took. He worked at the computer now, scanning the photographs of the heavens for anything unusual… when he noticed a strange object revolving around the earth in polar orbit. He was amazed at how anyone could have missed it; the unknown object appeared to be a massive hunk of metal that would easily dwarf the International Space Station if put in comparison. In the photographs, the image was blurred, and James couldn't tell what it was… but he knew that he had to find out. _This could be my big break._ With sweaty palms, he hacked his way into the control program for a meteorological satellite, pausing only to ensure that the satellite was still functional and that its tangential orbit was not eroding. Cracking the code, he used the satellite as his eyes, panning the camera across the depths of space until… he saw the mysterious object, and commanded the satellite to take close up photos. The action was committed just before the thing disappeared from view, hidden by the curvature of Earth. James crossed his fingers as he backed out of the program and covered his tracks, hoping that this discovery would be the key to his success. He accessed the pictures that the satellite had taken, and had saved to his hard drive. He tensely sipped coffee from his thermos as he casually clicked to view the photographs, the warm liquid biting at his dry throat. The picture loaded, and for a moment, he had no idea what he was seeing. An asteroid? A hunk of space debris? He stared at the image, then dropped his thermos as the realization sunk in on him, sending the half-drained container clattering to the tile floor. The brown liquid splashed onto the ground, effectively wetting James' shoes. But that didn't matter. He knew what the object was…

"Are you positive?" the supervisor's high, nasal voice made him sound very much like a mosquito, or a gnat. James resented the man, and would very much have liked to squash him like his insectoid counterpart. But now, none of the spite he held for this man mattered. Not when there was an unidentified spacecraft orbiting the planet. "Yes, sir, quite positive. The photographs don't lie" The other glanced at the pictures that James had printed out moments after his revelation, smirking as he did so. "And I would like to know as to how you obtained these photographs?" James flinched, but recovered quickly, his concern for the world driving him. "That shouldn't matter! At this moment, there is a UFO orbiting our world. No one knows how long it's been there, or why. For all we know, it could belong to Russia, or China. It could be a weapon of mass destruction, or even an alien vehicle; and all you think about are technicalities!" the superior was taken aback by James' outburst, but he realized the man's point. "You're right, and I'm sorry. We should tell the others." Catching his breath, James nodded, satisfied with himself and his work for the first time.

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><p>The warning sirens wailed loudly, alerting the entire populace of the station that danger was afoot. Wonka stepped quickly to the Control Room, pausing only to glance curiously at the Oompas that rushed frantically about. Once he reached his destination, he consulted the Master Technician. "What is going on?" The Oompa bowed reverently before answering. "We have been pinpointed, my Fuhrer. Someone on Earth has us in their sights." "Hmm." Wonka murmured. "This could be very bad. After all, am I not supposed to be dead? If the people of Earth discover that this is where their favorite candies originate from, and that Wonka is still living, they would begin to question our methods. That would mean exposing the Oompa-loompa race, my genius, and the secrets of the trade. Such a thing can simply not be done!" "What should we do?" an Oompa asked. "We can't leave, or else your candy trade will be finished on Earth. Then all your customers will lose faith in you." Wonka considered this. "Yes… we still need to be able to reach Earth, after all that's where all the good customers are… but we don't have to retain so close an orbit. In fact, we don't have to orbit. It would be better for us to have a base on solid ground, in a place safe from the casual eye." Searching the heavens for answers, Wonka gazed out the window, his sight coming to rest on the crescent moon. "Hey, there's an idea… yes, let us go and set up shop on the dark side of the moon. It seems like an ideal location: hidden, only a few million kilometers from home, and stationary. Yes, let us set up a Lunar Base."<p>

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><p><em>Houston, Texas, 10:04 AM. <em>

A kind of unease had settled upon the staffers of NASA. After all, why shouldn't one be uneasy if they had been told and had seen what they had? They had all been shown the image of the space station floating in the ether; it had no markings to tell whom it belonged to, and no country had risen to claim it. As if these things had not been disturbing enough, the ship disappeared a few hours later, as if someone had known that it had been spotted, and had decided to move it out of the people's view. James was most disturbed of all; but at least now, his opinion was respected.

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><p>The operation had gone smoothly; Wonka's assets had been relocated to a deep crater in the dark side of the moon… not that it would remain dark for long; the moon rotated as much as the earth did. The base, however, even when exposed to light, would not be visible to anyone outside of Wonka's own forces. It was here, Wonka hoped, that his factory would finally remain. He watched carefully as the Oompas loaded the shuttlecrafts with the crates of goods, candies that had been manufactured over the past month. The task was soon accomplished, and Wonka nodded to the Oompa in charge of the merchant fleet. He gave the signal, and the ship's crews got into place, firing up the engines and easing their ships out of the base. The moon's face had been completely darkened by the shadow of the Earth, and it was under this cover of darkness that the Wonka fleet entered Earth's atmosphere, glowing brightly for a moment as their heat shields battled against the friction of an atmospheric reentry. The heat shields were expelled, where they dropped harmlessly into the ocean. The spacecrafts continued flying above the water, in search of something… until two aircraft carriers appeared on the horizon, as if summoned by the appearance of the shuttles. The fleet approached them, then landed, the crews of each vehicle exiting their vessels to meet each other; all of them<br>Oompa-loompas.

Wonka glanced down at the message he received from the forces on Earth. The fleet had made it safely, having found both of the two commandeered aircraft carriers that had been left, crewed by Oompa-loompas, to patrol the oceans. Now the crews were in the process of refueling the spacecraft in preparation for the return journey, and unloading the goods. These delicious candies would be distributed among the Wonka submarines, which currently were docked in the undersea base. The submarines would then deliver these candies to the rest of the world. It seemed like a good enough plan; after all, it had worked for his father. He had been in contact with the undersea base, and had found the residents willing and eager for action, especially after having seen the face of the new Fuhrer… how could they possibly refuse to serve their seemingly immortal leader?

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><p>Randall looked over the document that he had printed out, his frayed nerves causing his hands to shake uncontrollably. He fought for control of his body; after all, he couldn't display weakness… not when everyone was counting on him. He had been promoted after his startling discovery, though the formality felt hollow since the presence of an unknown spacecraft could only mean that the world was in danger. Despite the gravity of the situation, James had managed to pull himself together, for his sake and the sake of those around him. But the words on the papers in his hands, the words he was reading now, only served to intensify his fears, until he was unable to visibly contain them any longer. In the darkness of night, several unidentified objects, presumably meteorites, had entered the earth's atmosphere, glowing brightly in the moonless sky, then disappearing into the ocean. James <em>wanted<em> to believe that the objects were merely repercussions of a chance meteor shower, but the occurrence had happened too closely to the appearance and disappearance of the unnamed space station to be coincidence. With great foreboding, he accessed the satellite camera database, and looked up aerial footage from the night before. With a pang of hope, he selected a likely satellite, and found what he was looking for. He watched the recorded footage, gasping as the unidentifieds streaked across the sky, then disappeared into the ocean. _But wait…_ James leaned closer to the screen as he went through the footage frame by frame. He noticed that, as the glowing forms fell to the ocean, darker shapes continued on, streaking over the water's surface until they disappeared over the horizon. In horror, James increased magnification, bringing the dark forms into full view. There, on the screen, he was able to see a spacecraft unlike any other that he had ever seen, its contours making it appear more advanced than human technology. But the presence of such vehicles could only mean one thing… James gasped, his panic rising. _We're being invaded from outer space!_


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer**: Same as always. We own only what you haven't seen in books or on tv before.

**A.N.** Back from a long hiatus...thanks to reviews and encouragement from brave readers. You might not realize how much a thoughtful comment can influence a writer, but it really does help. Think how much more an in-depth review could assist a writer! Anyway, the next few sections are a bit weird...but then again, a magical candymaker in space is pretty weird already. Just bear with it, I guess.

Special thanks to Typhex...we look forward to seeing what you have to say about the new material.

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><p>...the throne room was massive, and the servant felt even more miniscule when he entered this chamber. But he had been sent with news for the emperor, whom he was now approaching. He cleared his throat, catching the attention of his master, who was seated before him. "Speak."<p>

"The human forces have proven stronger than we had anticipated, sire," the servant began. "They managed to destroy several of our sentinels using a kind of weaponry that is not yet documented in the archives."

The Emperor gave a low sound of concern. "Are you saying that they have advanced beyond us?"

"I didn't mean to allude to the idea that—"

"Of course, if what you say is true, then it would be wise to gauge the strength of the perpetrators before taking further action." The Emperor drew a digit over his bearded chin, appearing to ponder. "Is it true that humans have an affinity for peace?"

The other raised his head slightly. "Yes, sire. It has been observed that most of their species desire to coexist in tranquility. Why do you ask?"

"If that is true, then they should not repudiate an attempt of diplomacy on our part. If they accept the friendship of the Empire, we may be able to uncover their weaknesses over time, and destroy them if they prove to be a nuisance. I would like for you to organize a group of ambassadors. Have them infiltrate the humans' base under the guise of an attempt for peaceful communication… if they should prove powerful, however, they might make useful allies."

"Yes, sire. Right away."

Warning sirens wailed loudly, sending dozens of Loompas scuttling to their stations. Wonka rushed for the ControlCenter, wondering if the end was near. He had heard that the Station's defense systems had recently managed to neutralize an attack made by ships of an unidentified origin. Had the beings who had initiated the skirmish returned for more? He made his way toward the center of the chamber pausing only to glance upward at the massive screens that made up most of one wall. "What's going on?" "A vessel is slowly approaching; it appears to be a transport of some sort, nothing like the ships that the defense system had previously destroyed." Wonka cast a glance at the Loompa, then returned to watching the screens. The unidentified craft landed a few meters away from the main entrance of the station, sending a cloud of moon dust floating off into the ether. Within moments of landing, the ship disgorged a host of figures that stood erectly, appearing to be humanoid, but impossible to tell for the suits they wore. "My Fuhrer, they're coming toward the entrance! What course of action should we take?" Wonka was silent for a moment as he watched the figures approach; there were six of them in all, seeming very humanlike except for the extra set of arms protruding from their chests; they bore no weapons that he could see, and seemed to be trying to maintain a nonthreatening pace as they neared the factory. "Open the first chamber door, and let them in." "What?!" an Oompa cried disbelievingly. Wonka flashed him an icy glare. "Do it. Who knows, maybe after the chamber is pressurized, they'll die from oxygen poisoning." "Yes, my Fuhrer." Reluctantly, the Oompa threw the switch, clearing the way for the alien visitors.

Wonka watched as the group entered the chamber; they hesitantly came forward, but did not refuse the opportunity. The chamber was pressurized, and the visitors immediately threw off their restrictive covering, exposing the dark, scaly flesh and armor that had been underneath. Wonka, tearing his gaze from the screens, walked out of the Control Room, several Loompas running at his heels. "Well, they didn't die. Are you going to let them in, Fuhrer?" Not breaking pace, Wonka answered. "Of course. They don't seem aggressive; maybe they want to negotiate or something. Besides, who am I to refuse guests? Not to mention extraterrestrial ones?" They journeyed to the entrance, where several armed Loompas already stood, weapons trained at the portal in case the company did anything threatening. Wonka pulled a radio from within his coat and called the Control Room. "Open the door." "Affirmative, my Fuhrer. Raising second gate… now." the door slid back with a hiss, and the aliens stepped inside. There was a moment of silence as both parties examined each other, then Wonka introduced himself. "Greetings. I am Charlie Wonka. These are my workers," he said, referring to the Oompa-loompas that were gathered behind him, "and this is my factory." The visitors stared at him unblinkingly for a minute, and he realized that they probably didn't understand him. "Do we have any English-to-alien translators?" Wonka whispered to an Loompa, who shook his head. "Sorry to disappoint, Fuhrer." Wonka sighed in frustration.

But then, one of the beings came forward, an amused look on his face, the features of which were very humanlike. "There will be no need for that, sir."

Wonka raised his eyebrows when he heard the other speak perfect English. "How do you know our language?"

The speaker crossed his four arms, making him look twice as amused. "Your species uses a primitive tongue that has many derivative forms; but in the end, all the deviations are very much alike. It wasn't too hard for our kind to determine the root form of your language from intercepted satellite feed."

"I see. So why are you here, Mr.…"

"I am called Drinian, and am an ambassador of the Intergalactic Imperium. These are my associates; fellow ambassadors and scientists. We were all quite interested in making the acquaintance of the first humans to colonize Earth's moon."

Wonka dipped his head. "Thank you. It's an honor to be recognized by an empire." Drinian cast a cursory glance about him, determined to get the creature before him to show them around the base. "It appears that the construct of this facility is quite different than that of our own. I am curious as to how the rest of your complex is designed." Wonka searched the other's eyes for any sign of malice, but was unable to discern if the interest had been genuine or not. Despite his suspicion, he broke into a grin. "I should be more than… happy to show you around," he said, glancing knowingly at an Oompa, who smiled mischievously and dashed away. Drinian, missing the significance of the exchange, smiled as well, though the action made him appear more fearsome than friendly. "Wonderful. Let us be on our way, then." Nodding, Wonka made a gesture to the Loompas, who saluted and raced off, heading out to perform their assigned duties. "Right this way." Wonka led the six into a corridor, which seemed warm and comforting despite the harsh lunar landscape visible through large windows. "You may hang your gear there," he said, pointing to a set of hooks protruding from the wall. The guests continued to clutch the suits, as if contemplating the wisdom of leaving their gear unattended. Wonka tipped his head to the side. "The tour will go a lot faster if you leave them."

Drinian nodded, then gestured to the others, who promptly strode to the wall and deposited their gear. "All right," Wonka said, smiling broadly, "this way, please." He walked quickly down a hallway, not slowing for anything. The corridor was clear of Oompa-loompas, which only meant that he could travel faster than normal, not having to worry about stepping on them.

"Mr. Wonka, wait!" Drinian called from several meters behind. Wonka did stop, but not until he had come within sight of a large door.

The six followers had finally caught up with Wonka, and were catching their breaths. "To where does this portal lead, sir?" Drinian asked, noting the importance of the imposing door before them. "This, my friends, is the most important room in the entire structure! I am, by trade, a candymaker. I create the most delectable sweets on Earth… and on the Moon, for that matter! Anyway, this chamber happens to contain the main component for my most well-known products. This is the Chocolate Room." And with that said, he opened the door.

The panel swung inward, permitting entrance for the group. They stepped in, noting the odd colors and scents of the room. "Drinian, this is remarkable," one of the ambassadors, who was a scientist, breathed as he allowed his gaze to wander over the grassy hills and wondrous array of foliage. Wonka smiled. "Beautiful, isn't it? Tasty, too."

"Tasty?" the scientist who had spoken previously asked. "Yes, everything in this room is eatable, from the grass to the trees and the rocks, to that river winding in the distance over there. Go ahead and taste what you like; I guarantee that it's delectable!" The members of the group looked at each other unsurely, but one by one they dispersed, tasting a blade of grass or the leaf of a tree. After they had tasted one thing, though, they immediately wondered what another thing would taste like, and so the whole party was soon scurrying about the massive chamber, eating to their hearts' content. Wonka watched in hilarity as his guests sampled everything in the room. A distant memory came to life, and he found himself experiencing a déjà vous. Where had he seen this before?

A loud expletive split the air, breaking Wonka from his thoughts. He turned, to see one of the ambassadors… struggling to stay afloat in the river of chocolate. "HELP!" he cried, flailing about in the dark liquid. The others were trying to reach him from the riverbank without falling into the pool; but they could not reach him. Wonka restrained an angry growl as he watched his chocolate becoming contaminated. "My… chocolate…" The party continued to stare in horror as the drowning ambassador slowly lost strength. "Mr. Wonka, do something! He'll drown!" Drinian pleaded. Suddenly, Wonka remembered where he had seen this before. _But something's missing…_ A loud whirring made everyone forget momentarily about the downed ambassador. They looked toward the source of the noise, and saw a series of huge glass pipes come down from the ceiling, as if to dip into the chocolate river. "Those pipes," Wonka said darkly, "Suck up the chocolate, and take it away. All over the factory! Isn't that neat?"

"Not in his case," Drinian said, pointing at the unfortunate ambassador, who had been caught in the current. "HELP ME—" his cry was cut short when he was sucked under. For a moment, the only sound was the crashing of the waterfall and the sucking of the pipes. Then, the observers by the river uttered a gasp of surprise as they saw the form of their companion shooting up the pipe. "Hmm." Wonka said, causing the others to glance at him. "He didn't stick this time! Either I have to make smaller pipes…" He noticed the group's staring, and grinned, dismissing his musing. "I'm terribly sorry about your friend. But don't worry; I'm sure he'll be rescued before he gets poured into the boiler. By the way, how did he fall in? I'm afraid I missed it… Wait, let me guess: he was trying to drink from the river?" The look of surprise was visible on Drinian's face.

"Why yes, he was! How did you know?"

Wonka averted his gaze, his eyes darkening as he relived a memory. "I just had a notion…." He half expected a group of Oompa-loompas to begin a song, in jest of the fool's departure, but there were none… it seemed his workers rarely sang anymore. His eyes brightened after a moment, and he turned to the bewildered group. "Well, shall we continue on? I'm afraid that we have much more to see before the day is out. My factory is simply expansive! It would take us weeks to see the entire thing! I'm just going to show you some key places in order to give you an idea of what it's like." The group followed him out of the Chocolate room, and back into the hall. "I would've taken you for a ride on my candy boat, but it's still under construction, since the last one sunk when it struck a pillar broadside. It took us days to dredge it out from under the chocolate river… Imagine my surprise when only half of it was remaining! I suppose the other half dissolved in the chocolate. As for the rowers, well…" Without finishing the thought, Wonka rushed down the hall, his guests once again following in hot pursuit. They nearly crashed into him when he abruptly stopped, and turned to a door on the left side of the wall. "Let's have a look in here. It's not one of my better known rooms, but I'd like for you to have a see for yourselves." He pushed the door open, and they walked in. The room appeared to be nearly empty, except for a table with mugs atop it, and two huge vats that were labeled BUTTERSCOTCH and BUTTER GIN. "Wonderful stuff! I have to keep it locked in this room though, because some of my workers have been known to sneak shots of it on the job! I'd offer you some, but-" A sort of clattering noise came from the side, and Wonka whirled, to see one of the ambassadors with a mug in hand, tipping it back to drain the liquid into his mouth. Wonka swore. "I _told_ those Loompas to clean up when they were done! But they were probably too drunk to care!" He and the others watched in surprise as the drinker quickly became intoxicated. "What's happening to him?" another asked, his fear becoming palpable. Wonka replied without turning. "Butterscotch and buttergin have a moderate alcohol level. But the intoxication is enhanced by the excessive amount of sugar in the drink. Only a small quantity is required to turn a sober man into a fool. This should be, in the least, interesting to observe." The offender had finished emptying the mug in his hand. He now went around the table, searching for mugs that had not been cleared of their contents. When he found one, he would instantly grab it and drain it of its contents. When he did not, he would emit a low curse in an alien language. Finally, his greed overcame him, and he approached the huge vats. Before anyone could stop him, he climbed over the side and fell in, a loud splash sounding moments later. But it was deeper than he had anticipated, and he began to struggle to stay above the surface. He screamed. "SOMEONE, HELP!" Wonka rolled his eyes. He snapped his fingers, and suddenly three Loompas appeared in the doorway. "Would you please help our unfortunate friend out of the Buttergin vat?" Nodding, the three sprinted to the container. The remaining members of the party looked on as the Loompas climbed to the edge, and pulled out the sodden ambassador. He was breathing, but now unconscious from having ingested too much of the drink. Wonka stood over him and sighed. "He's alive, but he'll need medical attention, after having had _that_ much to drink. Take him to the medical center; hopefully he'll wake up." Drinian cast a troubled glance at the fallen associate. As the Oompa-loompas lifted him onto a gurney. "What do you mean, _hopefully_?"

Wonka replied without removing his gaze from afflicted ambassador. "The trouble with butterscotch and buttergin is that when someone falls unconscious, it's hard to tell if it is from the alcohol, or if he has fallen into a sugar coma. One cannot be treated until it is found out what he is suffering from." Drinian looked apprehensively at his downed companion, but nodded. Wonka smiled. "Right. Now, on with the tour?"

They were rushing down the hallway again, passing many rooms. "I say, Charlie, What are all these rooms?" Drinian asked, panting. Wonka slowed a little, and turned to address him. "Oh, just places to manufacture a different sweet. Since I'm always making new ones, I have to keep annexing rooms. It gets rather bothersome sometimes." He came to a halt, and smiled mysteriously. "This room," he said, referring to the door behind him, "is one of the most important rooms in this complex. It has all my sweet inventions that are currently under work. Therefore, there is no telling what might happen with these prototypes when they are used. I strongly urge you to not touch anything in this chamber." The remaining four nodded gravely, remembering the folly of their companions. "Now, let's go in." Wonka inserted a key into the lock and opened the door. The others entered, eagerly observing the curiosities of the chamber. Large machines were scattered about, some whirring and buzzing with activity and flashing lights, others lying cold and dormant. There were dozens of Oompa-loompas here, apparently maintaining the machines and documenting their progress. "Well, go on and have a look-see," Wonka told the group. Nodding, they scampered in different directions, in an attempt to view as much of the room as possible. Wonka himself walked slowly about, conferring with several Loompas about changes to be done on some of the machines. A sudden explosion made them look up, and Wonka noted with some dismay that one of the ambassadors was lying spread-eagled on the ground, smoke rising from his mouth. Wonka nodded to a cluster of Loompas, who promptly ran to the fallen ambassador with beakers of water. "That's exploding candy, as you can see. Great stuff for parties, but I just can't seem to get the mixture right. Lucky for your friend, that was the weaker blend." Sadness clouded his eyes. "The other day an Oompa-loompa tested some, and well… we'll just say that his life had an explosive ending." The Loompas had revived the victim, and he coughed weakly. "You should get some medical attention," Wonka said. "Your mouth must be on fire!"

"Feels like it," the other rasped weakly. The Oompa-loompas gestured to the ambassador for him to follow, and he rose, unsteadily, to follow after them. Wonka turned to those remaining. "Well, let's keep going! There's still much more to see!"

They swiftly crossed through a labyrinth of passageways, pausing only when one of the scientists tripped and fell on his face. "Hey, there's no time for dawdling!" Wonka cried, helping the man to his feet. "Anyway, here we are!" He turned to the door, which was marked in bold letters, NUTROOM. He pushed the door open, and they stepped inside. Upon entering, one of the scientists gasped and looked around with wide eyes. They were standing on a platform, overlooking a host of squirrels that were working busily, and shelling innumerable walnuts. "What are those?" the scientist asked. "You've never seen a squirrel before?" Wonka said disbelievingly, his eyebrow raised. "So that's what they're called… What are they doing?" Wonka gave a short laugh. "What does it look like they're doing? They're shelling the shells off of walnuts. That way, I can use them in my candies." The scientist looked hungrily over the group of a hundred little fuzzy creatures, wishing that he could add one of them to his specimen collection. He turned to Wonka, who was proudly watching his little creatures work. "What could I give you in exchange for one of these amazing creatures?" he asked. Wonka gazed steadily at the alien scientist, noting the way his skin was sheathed with a layer of hard scales. "They're not for sale, sir; you can't have one." The other, who was clearly used to having his own way, flashed Wonka a hard look. "You cannot dissuade me, sir. Never in my life have I seen animals like these. I intend to have one. No one will keep me from getting what I desire; not even you." Wonka and the others looked on helplessly as the scientist entered the chamber, blatantly ignoring the signs that said "keep out" and Drinian's call for him to come back. "I will have one of these creatures, if only for the progression of my studies!" He carefully climbed down the ladder, pausing only to smirk at Wonka, who still did not move. The squirrels had stopped working, and had turned to stare at the intruder, gazing intently at him with their little black eyes. Wonka stifled a sniff of amusement, the scene playing out before him seeming to have an odd familiarity about it.

The scientist was slowly approaching the squirrel nearest him, reaching out a claw to ensnare the little furry creature. Suddenly, the squirrel leapt from its stool, barely being missed by its pursuer. As quick as lightning, the other squirrels propelled themselves from their places, emitting a hundred angry squeaks as they did so. They jumped as one for the scientist, who had thought better of his decision and had begun to run for the ladder. But before he could get his foot on the first rung, the wave of rodents reached him. Throwing off their former softness, they became ferocious, biting through his clothing with their hard incisors and clawing at him with their hind paws. Wonka and the ambassadors observed in shock as the squirrels forced the foolish scientist to the ground. He struggled, but the little creatures were stronger than they appeared. One squirrel broke off from the rest and scrambled onto the scientist's chest. It appeared to examine the other's face. The captive flashed an angry look at the squirrel, who merely tipped its head to the side. The squirrel then crept up to the scientist's face, and rapped its tiny knuckles against his head. "HEY! CUT THAT OUT, YOU LITTLE-" The squirrel twitched its tail; a signal to its companions. The other rodents quickly began to drag their prisoner toward a yawning hole in the center of the room. The scientist began to struggle anew, fear rising in his chest. "HEY, LET ME GO!" And they did… straight into the open shaft. He fell, his shouts of terror growing fainter as he dropped farther into the garbage chute. "My, he must've been a bad nut." Wonka murmured to himself. "What?" one of the ambassadors asked. "Oh, it's an Earth expression used to describe someone of a rotten demeanor." "Hmm." Another said thoughtfully. "Well, I guess that would be an accurate term to describe him," he said, referring to the scientist. "Where does that portal lead to?" another worriedly asked Wonka.

"Oh, it goes to the incinerator, of course."

"incinerator?!" "But don't worry, we only light it every three days, so if he's lucky, he'll have some garbage to land in instead of raging flames."

"Serves him right, though. I don't think anyone would miss him."

Though Wonka privately agreed, he was eager to continue the tour. "Let's move on, shall we?"

They were rushing down the corridor once more, and Wonka glanced behind him to make sure he had not left anyone behind. "My goodness," he said, looking over the party of remaining guests. "It seems like my visitors are disappearing like flies! Hopefully the rest of you will still be sent back to your empire in good shape!" Drinian and the remaining scientist smiled uncomfortably, but Wonka didn't seem to notice. They kept walking in a quick pace, until Wonka slowed considerably. "We have to be really careful while passing through here," he said, lowering his voice to a whisper. "Why?" the scientist asked. Wonka glanced behind him before speaking. "Because of the Square Candies that Look Round. They are behaviorally unstable, but I expect to repair that in the future. They are still quite remarkable little creations." He continued, and the other two drew nearer in order to hear him properly. "We have made many, possibly hundreds, but the room we had built for them was recently destroyed in a chemical fire. There's a new one under construction, but since it's not ready yet, the candies have been moved into the hall." Without another word, he crept into the corridor, carefully placing his feet so that his footfalls did not make much noise. The remaining two followed close behind him, looking about, and hoping to catch a glimpse of the candies of such an enigmatic name. The scientist spotted them first- bunches of little candies on the ground that looked very much like sugar cubes. "Hey," he said, forgetting to be quiet, "They don't look round at all. They look square!" Chagrined, Wonka turned slowly to face the other, and motioned for Drinian to remain immobile.

At the sound of the scientist's voice, the square candies _did_ look round, in order to face him. When they turned, he was able to see little funny-looking pink faces on their sides that had been hidden a moment before. When the candies caught sight of him, however, they instantly began to edge closer to him. The scientist noticed this, and his face paled. He turned tail and ran down the hall, attempting to escape the swarm of pink and white sweets that pursued him. Seeing that the sugary scourge was distracted, Wonka calmly walked to the side of the chamber and pressed a button, summoning several Oompa-loompas, who were dressed in what looked like bee-keepers' clothing. Nodding to Wonka, they ran for the angry mass of sugar, which had engulfed the scientist, and sprayed it with a smoky substance. The candies, blackened, fell from the unfortunate scientist's body until they had all been removed from him. The scientist, though free from his attackers, did not move, and Wonka wrung his hands as he looked worriedly at him. "Oh, dear. He may have to be treated for stings…" "Stings?" Drinian echoed. "Oh, yes; when my Square Candies that Look Round feel threatened, they secrete a powerful sugar-based venom that can cause the victim to fall into a coma." Wonka turned to the Loompas, who were spraying at a few angry candies that had remained. "Take him to the medical center. When he is treated, he may wait with his friends." The Loompas bowed, and went to accomplish their task.

"So, Drinian, it's just you and me, now." Wonka said, gazing at the other. Drinian coughed. "Yes, I suppose it is." "What do you think of my factory so far?" Wonka abruptly asked. Drinian thought for a moment. "It is unlike anything I have ever encountered in the eons that I have lived. It is truly amazing." Wonka grinned slightly. "Thank you. But really, you haven't seen the half of it. If I allowed you to, I'm afraid that you might meet a sticky end as all your companions have." Drinian nodded. "I am disappointed with the way that they conducted themselves; it was truly an immature way to behave." His eyes glittered with concern for a moment. "Will they be okay?" "Of course!" Wonka answered. In fact, we can go collect them now, if you desire to cut the tour short." Drinian nodded. "But will we have to backtrack to reach them?" Wonka smiled broadly. "Of course not! Since there's just me and you, traveling will go a lot more quickly! Follow me!" Drinian glanced at Wonka uncertainly, but followed after him. They came to stand before a set of transparent doors. "This is the Great Glass Elevator!" he said, a hint of pride in his voice. "As you can see, it's not very large; that's why we couldn't use it earlier. But now that there are only two of us, we'll fit inside with room to spare!" He pressed the button, and the doors slid open. Charlie stepped inside, and flashed Drinian a reassuring smile. "It's perfectly safe. Come on in!" The ambassador hesitantly entered, clearly uncomfortable with the notion of standing on glass. "This elevator can access any room in the factory. Just the push of a button, and you're on your way!" Drinian glanced at all the buttons set into the walls, clearly impressed with the sheer number of rooms. "This is where your friends are," Wonka said, pointing to a button labeled MEDICALCENTER. "Shall we go there?" Drinian again nodded, and Wonka pressed the button firmly. The elevator jerked to the side, nearly throwing Drinian off his feet. Wonka, clearly used to the mode of travel, was unmoved by the shaking. Instead, he merely gazed through the elevator's clear walls, watching as the scenery flew past.

Within moments, they arrived at the MedicalCenter, where Oompa-loompas wearing doctor and nurse uniforms filed through the halls, filling out prescription forms and tending to wounded patients. Wonka stepped out of the elevator, and ushered Drinian toward a door marked RECOVERY. They entered the room together, and their eyes were greeted with a sorry sight. The ambassador that had fallen in the chocolate was clean, but his skin looked raw and sore to the touch, as if he had fallen into the boiler. The ambassador who had eaten the exploding candy sat disconsolately, his mouth full of gauze. The ambassador who had become overly intoxicated still looked half-asleep, but his eyes were open, and he kept asking for more to drink. The scientist that had been tossed into the garbage chute was no worse for the wear, except for being extremely smelly. And the second scientist, who had been attacked by the Square Candies that looked Round, looked as if his body had swollen from an allergic reaction. Charlie sighed. "I'm sorry for what happened to your companions, I truly am; if there is any way…" Drinian shook his head. "No, it's quite all right. You're just a candymaker, who brought his goods into the ether for the universe to enjoy. These sorry saps," he said, pointing to the injured, "have brought disgrace upon themselves for allowing their greed and incompetence to consume them. We will leave you in peace now, Mr. Wonka." Drinian dipped his head, and ushered his compatriots forward. They stopped briefly to don their gear, then stepped into the pressure chamber. Wonka returned to the Control Room, and watched as they returned to their ship, which took off as soon as the six had boarded, and soon disappeared into the blackness of space.

_Imperial Headquarters_

The emperor gazed steadily at Drinian, who returned the stare. "You mean to say that he is not a threat, despite him being human?"

Drinian shook his head. "He does not appear to behave like the rest of his species, sire; nor do his workers. The majority of his complex was all rooms in which to house his creations; sugary goods and sweets."

"Sugary _what_?" Drinian sighed irately. "The man is a candymaker; his wares are unlike any that I have ever seen!" The emperor was silent for a moment as he pondered. "We already have plenty of treat makers in the galaxy; and I know that Jura Grobe would not take kindly to the presence of another competitor." Drinian sniffed derisively. "Well, then, let the human be; he means us no harm, and is occupying an expended territory. In time, he may be destroyed by Jura, but until then, his wares may increase trade in the Omega Quadrant." The emperor nodded, pleased by the ambassador's logic. "Very well. The human may remain. Besides, I have nothing against such businessmen. However, the Council thinks otherwise… they desire some recompense for the sentinels that were lost… they ask that you inform Jura Grobe of the presence of the new competitor."

Drinian's betrayed a look of hesitancy, but he nodded. "Of course, sire."

your document here...


	3. Chapter 3

_**Disclaimer**__: Same as before._

* * *

><p><em>Washington DC, Earth<em>

James Randall nervously followed his former superior down the extensive hall, clinging tightly to the sheaf of papers in his hands. They quickly made their way through the corridors and passed many people, drawing stares as they rushed by. Finally, they came to the end of the hall, and paused before an oaken door marked AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY. Randall flashed the other an anxious glance, but the man merely rolled his eyes at him in impatience. "Come on, man. You were given higher clearance than me, so you can go through even though I can't… or do you need me to hold your hand?" Randall shook his head with embarrassment. "No, sorry. It's just… I never thought that it would come to this." His associate nodded. "Yeah. Well, good luck in there James." Breathing deeply, Randall pulled out a card key, sliding it into the reader beside the door. A tiny light in the pad turned green, and he heard the locking mechanism in the door click as the bolt slid out of its place. He pushed tentatively on the panel, and it swung open. Randall stepped in, glancing about himself in curiosity. He was in the threshold of a large conference room, only several feet away from a great table where the greatest dignitaries of the United States of America were seated. He approached them slowly, feeling awkward. "Ah, so this is the great James Randall," a gruff voice said from his left. Randall looked up to see a large, muscular man wearing a suit. "Uh, hello. Are you the President?" The man looked oddly at Randall, then broke into peals of thunderous laughter. "Me? No, I'm just his advisor. The President actually happens to be in the restroom at the moment." Randall felt his face burning, and looked shamefully at the ground when he noticed the others in the room staring at him. "Sorry, I…" The man beamed, his lively eyes twinkling in amusement. "Don't worry about it; I won't tell anyone. Just be glad that Mrs. Tibbs didn't catch you saying that."

"Who?"

The President's advisor glanced back at the table, catching the glances of those seated, then explained lowly. "Mrs. Tibbs is the vice president and a very huffy lady in my opinion…well, in anyone's opinion, I suppose. The President himself is the only one who truly appreciates having her around; I guess that explains why he of all people allowed her into office, but…"

Just then, the door opened, and two dignitaries walked in; a stout, sulky man and a stern-looking woman who appeared more fit to serve as a nanny than a political figure.

Upon seeing these two, the advisor stiffened. He leaned over to Randall, who had turned to observe the newcomers' entrance. "That's the President," he said, gesturing to the man. He pointed to the woman next. "And _that_ is the vice president; under no circumstances do you want to cross her… her bite _is_ worse than her bark."

The President and vice president drew close to Randall and the advisor, the woman looking sharply at the consultant. "Louis, it is impolite to point."

Randall looked up at the advisor, whose face had flushed in embarrassment.

"And _you_," Mrs. Tibbs said, turning to Randall, "your back is slouched; you need to work on your posture."

Randall felt his ears redden in awkwardness, but he recovered his dignity in a matter of seconds. Clearing his throat, he turned to address the public figures that were now all seated at the table. "My name is James Randall. I work for NASA, and–"

"I hope you have a good reason for dragging us all up here," the President said grumpily. "My advisor was about to give me lessons on sword eating, and word eating too." "Uh…"

"Yes, why are we here, young man?" the vice president asked harshly. Are you going to ask for more funding? Doesn't the government already pay NASA millions a year?"

"Be quiet and allow the man to speak!" the President's advisor said in a patient tone, clearly used to the hypercritical attitudes of these two. They gave him a scathing glance, but were silenced. Randall gave the advisor a nod, thankful that he had at least one ally in this group. "Thank you. Now, the reason I have called for you is because I believe that the world as we know it may be in a great deal of danger." A man at the far end of the table gave a derisive snort. "What else is new?" "The Secretary of Defense," the advisor muttered into Randall's ear. "Things have been blowing up for years… we just tend to help them along." Randall stood up. "Well, this is a different kind of emergency, one that I am unsure that our nation can even cope with." The listeners watched him, now transfixed. Holding their gazes, he passed them papers from the stack he had brought, handing one to each of them with a flourish. "What is this?" One man asked, his falsetto mustache hanging crookedly above his lip. "These are satellite photographs that were taken in the middle of the night; what you are looking at now is a fleet of small spacecraft that have penetrated earth's atmosphere." For a moment, the room was silent, as if they were all absorbing this information slowly. "What?" the distinctive voice of the President asked in confusion. Randall turned to him. "Don't you see? In the photograph; it is a class of aircraft not documented anywhere. Not in the FBI, NASA, CIA, NSA, private investigation agencies… I checked all those places, and plenty more. What you are looking at is a vehicle not of this world!"

The faces of his audience turned pale. "So, are you saying that we may soon be invaded by aliens? Like in _War of the Worlds_?" the man with the false mustache asked.

"Maybe."

"Oh, no!" another replied. What can we possibly do?"

"We can blow them up!" the Secretary of Defense shouted excitedly.

"Or, we can declare a national state of emergency, in case the aliens are not friendly, and fire if fired upon." The vice president said, fixing a cold stare on the Secretary of Defense. The man shivered.

"Yes sir…I mean, ma'am. That is a wonderful idea. In fact, I'll go put that order in right away!" The man rushed out of the room, apparently eager to get away from the imposing presence of Mrs. Tibbs. Those remaining returned their gaze to Randall, who was still standing.

"Anything else?" the advisor asked.

Randall shook his head. "That's all, sir. I was just supposed to tell you and see if you could do anything about this alien problem. Our organization alone simply does not have any defensive capabilities."

The other nodded. "Thank you. You will tell us if you find anything else, won't you, Mr. Randall?"

James nodded slowly. "Of course." He then backed out of the room, breathing a sigh of nervous relief when he found himself back in the empty hall. There's _nothing I can do now, except watch._

He began to walk quickly down the corridor, eager to get out of the bowels of the Pentagon. He nearly yelped in surprise when he collided with another person, who had been standing aloof in the hall. Randall fell backward, his papers scattering onto the floor… and the other man fell as well, landing with a thump on the smooth linoleum. Randall, who was used to such accidents and so was unaffected by the fall, immediately leapt up and ran to help the surprised victim, who was lying in a daze on the ground. "I am so sorry, sir…" Randall said, embarrassed. "I didn't mean-" The man stopped him with a raised hand. "It's quite all right, Randall."

James froze. "Who-"

The man interjected again. "You _are_ James Randall, correct? The one who detected the UFO and alerted NASA?" Randall swallowed nervously. "Um… yes?" The other gave a contemplative grunt as he stood, then examined James' disorganized appearance with an upraised brow. "Okay, then; come with me. Your presence has been requested." Without thinking of any reason to argue, James pursued the other man, who was making his way toward the entrance of an unfamiliar corridor. James ran to catch up with him, forgetting entirely about the papers that had been left on the floor.

The strange man had produced a key card similar to the one James had been given in order to access certain areas in the building; the one that he held, however, was a different color, and had a symbol on one side that James couldn't quite decipher. The man slid it into a pad that was beside a door, visibly tensing when the light turned green, and the lock clicked open. He turned to James, who was examining the reinforced steel of the door with a bewildered gaze. "Come on," he said, pushing the panel open. He disappeared into a dark passageway, and Randall followed, hesitation clouding his eyes. "Where are we going?" The man stopped, and turned to face James, his gaze deadly serious. "Mr. Randall, what you are about to see is _extremely_ classified," he said, emphasizing "extremely" as if it might be a new word for James. "From this point on, anything that you experience is to remain in your mind; if you tell anyone outside this chamber about the things you observe here, it will be considered a federal offense." He bit off the last sentence and smirked, as if he held hidden contempt for James, then turned to continue leading down the passageway.

They came to the end of the hall; the man opened another door… and the light from within blinded James. It took him a moment for his eyes to adjust to the change in brightness, then his jaw dropped in amazement. They were standing at the edge of a huge chamber; the far wall was comprised entirely of monitors, each flickering with feed from some security camera. In the center of the room rested a large table, where several men and woman were sitting, arguing about something in differing tones while numerous aides ran about, brining the dignitaries papers, printouts, and cups of coffee. James was staring in awe at the sheer enormousness of the room; his surprise was furthered when the people at the table noticed him, and stopped arguing in order to stare. James' escort nudged him toward the onlookers, then cleared his throat to speak. "Presenting James Randall, astrophysicist and meteorological expert of NASA." He cast a cuing glance to James, who merely nodded in bewilderment. One of the people at the table stood; a woman. "So you are the one who discovered a UFO circling the earth? And more unidentifieds entering the atmosphere?" James nodded again. "And I have the photographs to prove it." Another person stood; a largish man, who spoke in a gruff voice. "We have photographs, too. In fact, we even know when the craft first appeared, and when it departed." James' look of bewilderment returned. "If you knew about the threat, and had known before I even found out, then why have you called me here?" those seated exchanged undecided glances, then the woman spoke again, this time coming to stand beside him. "You, sir, most likely have no idea who any of us are." She said this while gesturing to the people at the table. "That is because as far as society goes, none of us, this room, or our jobs even exist." James couldn't hide his confusion. "What?" The woman gazed contemplatively at him for a moment. "This room is the meeting place for the operators of all things affiliated with extraterrestrial contact; sort of like a communications center for Area 51 and things like that." James stared at her in astonishment, unable to speak. The woman glanced at the man who sat at the head of the table. "May I show him?" "Of course. He's supposed to become one of us anyway." The woman nodded, and took hold of James' sleeve; she pulled him toward the wall of screens, followed by an aide. "These screens," she told him, "show feed from cameras all over the United States. They monitor activity of the secret institutions that we have developed for the advancement of technology." "Technology, such as?" She flashed him a wry look as she motioned toward a screen. It showed a group of technicians busily fitting metal panels onto a type of aircraft that James had never seen before. "For travel into space, of course. NASA hasn't been making as much progress as we had hoped, though the successful launching of the Space Hotel had been a pleasant surprise." James nodded, remembering the fateful day when the monstrous spacecraft had rocketed into the Earth's upper atmosphere. Of course, before it could have been enjoyed by the people who had funded its creation, the station had been taken over by some sort of alien beings that had devoured some of the first people who had gone onboard. That had been a gruesome day that James had never seemed to be able to get out of his mind; the terrified screams of the victims still rang as loud in his ears as they had over the headset he had worn for the duration of the operation. After the survivors had managed to escape via Commuter Capsule and were saved from the alien beings by a group of mysterious astronauts, the Space Hotel was set for self-destruct, in order to prevent it from becoming a breeding ground for whatever evil creatures had made it their home.

James Randall looked again at the screens, finally realizing the importance of what he was seeing. Behind society's back, these people were developing vehicles for space travel. With the Space Hotel incident still fresh in his mind, the images before him only brought a wave of fear to him. _Wasn't one failure at space travel enough?_ He turned to the woman. "So when are you going to launch any of those crafts, if you haven't already?" "Tests are still underway," she said nonchalantly, as if they were talking about everyday things. "They'll be ready before next year, I'm told." She still spoke as she accepted a cup of coffee from an aide. "Their first voyage will be to the moon; we've detected some activity on the surface that we need to investigate." _The moon?_ The thought that aliens had a base so close to home made James feel nauseous. "I think I need to sit." An aide appeared suddenly at his side with a chair, which he set on the ground. James sat. Another aide appeared with another cup of coffee, which he accepted gratefully. "Thank you." The aide nodded, then dashed away to accomplish some other task. The woman watched him go with a fondness in her eyes. "Do you like this, Randall? Being here in a place with technology you've only dreamed about, being waited on hand and foot?" James nodded with a slight grin. "Good, because you're going to stay here." "What?" James asked, nearly incredulous. She smiled apologetically. "You have one of the brightest minds in the country and a desire to lead, not to mention your ability for dissolving codes. Never mind how I know that, but you have been determined as a valuable asset to this organization. In light of this UFO's appearance, we need someone like you more than ever, to help us figure out a good defense plan and course of action. James thought he saw something else in her eyes, some sort of warm feeling directed toward him, but she averted her gaze before he could be sure. The woman cleared her throat, then spoke crisply. "You will be given quarters here; your employers have been notified of your resignation, and your bank accounts, bills, and other monetary holdings have been frozen. From now on, James Randall, you no longer exist." Before James could reply, she turned to another aide. "Show Mr. Randall to his chamber so that he can organize it to his taste." The aide nodded and gestured to James. "Come this way, sir." James didn't follow, but turned to face the woman. She was gone, already having returned to the table with the other people of importance. It was then he realized he hadn't gotten her name. He stifled a bitter laugh. _But if I'm staying here for the rest of my natural life, I'll be bound to uncover her name eventually. _"Sir," the aide beckoned once more, and James turned to follow him to the living quarters.


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer**: we don't own Wonka or the Oompa-loompas...only the cool new sci-fi stuff!

**Author's Note**: the story is getting better! More science fiction, more action, more drama! Hopefully some of you silent readers will feel like commenting soon...it's pretty sad having so many views and only one person willing enough to drop a comment.

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><p><em>Lunar Base<em>

Their rhythmic footfalls echoed through the long halls, reminding Charlie Wonka of a scene from _Star Wars_, where the Dark Lord had been escorted by his troops through the corridors; much like the way he was now being led through the extensive passageways by his Loompa guard. All he needed to complete the likeness were the slightly more advanced technology and an orchestra playing in the background. _Now there's an idea, _he thought, the suggestion of a personal ensemble appealing to him. But that would have to wait; the Drill Crew had reported an interesting find, a sort of ruin hidden in the moon's crust. Wonka was presently on his way to view it, unsure of what to expect.

"As you can see, my Fuhrer, it appears that there have been others before us who have come and strip-mined this entire world. According to the readings we've taken, there are tunnels like these that run throughout the entire planet." The Oompa's voice sounded tinny through the suit's helmet radio. Wonka glanced about, nodding. They were standing in the center of a huge chamber, completely underground. There were several pieces of ancient mining machinery lying scattered about, abandoned and untouched by rust for the lack of oxygen in the area. "Ah, I expect this to be the work of the Poozas." He smiled sadly as he looked about, and the Loompa glanced up at Wonka questioningly. "What?"

"The Poozas; very nice creatures, who used to inhabit the moon. They were enslaved and forced to work in the mines, at least until…" Wonka stared pensively at the old equipment, lost in thought. "Until what, my Fuhrer? And how did you know about these creatures?"

Wonka looked puzzled for a moment, then gave an indifferent sniff. "I forget, and I haven't the slightest idea how I knew in the first place; I just knew." "That's no explanation," The Loompa muttered lowly, forgetting that Wonka could still hear him. "HOW'S THIS FOR AN EXPLANATION?!" Wonka roared, pulling a gun from his side and firing off at the Loopa, who was hit by a laser discharge from the weapon and killed instantly. Wonka glanced down at the weapon in his hand, and shrugged. "Huh. I didn't expect that to work the first time," he said to himself, referring to the prototype blaster pistol in his grasp. Replacing the weapon at his side, he turned to his other escorts, whose eyes were still directed to his weapon. "Shall we continue touring the tunnels?" They nodded slowly, then resumed the walk forward.

_Gyraxxian Nebula_

Ceaseless sounds of grinding and whirring saturated the chamber, making the air itself seem to quake with energy. Smells of every kind imaginable wafted about, and it made the servant feel slightly nauseous as he attempted to find his employer before his senses failed from overload. He ran as quickly as his gangly legs would allow, nearly knocking some of the mechanics off their feet. _Sorry,_ he thought, not stopping when they growled angrily at his fleeing form. Reaching the end of the main chamber, the servant stopped, looking hesitantly about for his master. _He must be in his office._ The long-legged creature found the door marked GROBE, and knocked. "Enter," a scratchy voice said from within the room, and the servant complied immediately. He found himself standing in a dimly lit area, barren of extraordinary beauty, not exquisitely furnished as he thought it would be. A large creature, looking very much like a furry, grey bird with arms and clawed hands was seated at a desk in the far end of the chamber. His red, glowing eyes stared piercingly at the servant, and his small beak made a menacing snapping as he spoke. "What do you want?" The other gulped in unease as he forced himself to look at his master, who held the appearance of a giant, evil Furbie. He found his voice, though it was slightly higher pitched than normal.

"You have a message, Mr. Grobe. From Ambassador Drinian." He held out the holographic transcriber, and Jura snatched it from him. "Thank you. You may leave now." The servant rushed out, not having to be told twice. Jura Grobe eagerly read the message, his eyes darkening when he discovered that a new competitor had risen in the galaxy.

"Wonka, eh? A human. Well, I'll make sure that he doesn't pose a threat to my business. Ever." Still holding the transcriber, he punched a button on his desk. "Engineering, are you there?"

"Yes, sir. What is it?"

"There is a new candymaker in the Omega quadrant; I am confident that you have the means by which to snuff him out." There was a pause, then the other replied.

"Of course, sir. We'll just send a fleet of KNIDs to pay him a visit."

Jura chuckled sinisterly. "Excellent."

_Lunar Base_

Wonka was busy at work, putting the final touches on a prototype fuel system, when the sirens went off, screeching loudly. Oompa-loompas ran for their stations, and Wonka wondered for a moment if it was only Drinian returning for a friendly visit. But upon his entrance into the Control Room, he knew they were in trouble. On the screens, he saw video feed of the area surrounding the Lunar Base. And, in the distance, he saw a host of brownish-green, egg-shaped objects heading straight for their location at breakneck speed. "WHAT IN THE WORLDS IS THAT?!" a Loompa cried out, sending the others into a flurry of panic.

"KNIDs," Wonka said matter-of-factly, shaking his head in utter disbelief. "Katabolic, Nektonic, Intergalactic Destroyers. Someone has sent us a group of malevolent guests." He turned to the Commander. "Are your troops combat-ready?" The Loompa nodded.

"Yes, my Fuhrer." He pressed a button on the control panel before them, triggering yet another set of sirens to add to the cacophony of noises. Yet, at this signal, thousands of trained Oompa-loompas leapt from their cots in the barracks, running for their gear in order to fulfill the sole purpose for which they had been created. Once they were in uniform, they rushed for control of laser turrets that were a part of the station's defense systems. When in place, they began to shoot KNIDs out of the sky, burning them to a crisp before the vile-looking creatures were able to get close. But they hadn't counted on the sheer numbers of the vermicious beings; the turrets began to lose their intensity as they began to overheat.

"Blast!" One Loompa exclaimed when he was forced to leave his station when his turret began to smoke. "Should've installed that cooling coil when they had the chance!"  
>Wonka, meanwhile, had taken a number of troops into the underground corridors, which had since been annexed to the factory and pressurized. The Loompas, fully armed, flanked Wonka as they journeyed down the hall. Wonka kept his gaze ahead, trying his hardest to ignore the sound of blaster fire echoing from above. <em>I won't be driven away, not again. <em>He clenched his fist, and turned to enter another chamber. The Glass Elevator. The Loompas followed him in; Wonka waited until they had all entered before pressing a button marked SHIELD GENERATOR. _There hadn't been time before to engage the experimental shield, but now it might be the key to our survival._

The elevator darted to the side, throwing the Loompas, who were too short to reach the straps in the ceiling, off their feet. Wonka chuckled in amusement despite the situation, and one of the Loompas threw him a furious look as he got back on his feet. There wasn't much to see outside the elevator as it made its way through miles of dirt to the center of the moon, where the generator was located. _Hopefully the defense turrets will keep the KNIDs at bay until we can reach the core._ Wonka, for lack of better things to do, pulled a radio out of his pocket. He keyed the Control Room. "Is anyone there?" For a few moments, the only answer was static, and Wonka feared the worst. The Loompas with him exchanged nervous glances, but then the question was returned.

"…Yes, my Fuhrer, we're here… but the accursed KNIDs have broken through the first barrier. The chamber has been sealed off via force field, and is repressurized. But the KNIDs are attempting to get at us by ramming the shields with their bodies… I'm afraid they might get through; these forcefields won't last forever." Wonka sighed resignedly, making the others in the elevator look up at him. "Don't worry," he told them, "We'll make it somehow." He pressed the transmit button again. "Command, this is Wonka; hold the invaders off just a while longer as we come up with a solution."

"Understood. We will… NO!" There was the sound of a metallic crashing in the background, followed by the rattle of automatic fire and several screams. Wonka stared in horror at the radio in his hand as the transmission faded to static.

The elevator coasted to a halt, and the signal *ding* resounded as the doors slid open. The casualness of such a thing infuriated Wonka at this moment in time, and he fought the urge to roar in frustration as he absently wondered why he had installed the stupid ringer in the first place. He and the Oompa-loompas stepped out of the glass elevator, and came to stand before a large door marked SHEILD GENERATOR. "It certainly looks big enough," one of the soldiers chimed, and Wonka gave him a sardonic smile. "Yes, but size alone may not be enough to save the base." He pulled out a key from his pocket, and inserted it into the large keyhole in the door. The mechanism clicked, and he pulled his key out, returning it to the pocket while pushing the door open. He stepped in, and the guards followed hesitantly; it was clear that no Oompa-loompa had ever been there prior to their arrival. Wonka flipped a switch in the wall, and electric generators activated, powering numerous overhead lights. Now they were all able to see the Shield Generator, a mammoth machine that reached all the way to the distant ceiling of the cavernous chamber. The Loompas turned to watch Wonka, who was wandering around, looking for something. "Button, button… where's the button?"

"Over there?" one Loompa suggested, pointing to a large, green button mounted on a pedestal.

"Thank you." Wonka mashed the button with his fist, and the machine began to move, its gears groaning as they rotated for the first time. The lights in the chamber dimmed slightly as the device drew more power, but Wonka and the others were still able to see the generator as it worked at full speed. "Nothing's happening!" one Loompa said. "Isn't it supposed to make a shield of some sort?" "Of course, Wonka said, flashing him an annoyed look. The generator just makes the shield around the base, outside the core of the moon; we won't be able to see anything from here. Let's go up and see if everyone isn't KNID food by now."

The elevator's doors slid open once again, and Wonka was greeted with a grisly sight. Dead Loompas were everywhere; lifeless bodies, or remnants thereof, were strewn about, sometimes accompanied by a mass of unmoving brownish-green matter that signified the presence of a dead KNID. He pulled a pistol out of his coat, holding it before him as a precaution before he stepped out of the elevator. The guard team moved ahead of him, sometimes stopping to kneel beside the body of a fallen Loompa, or to fire a round into a dead KNID. "We were too late…"

The corridors were still fully lit; apparently the KNIDs were not mentally developed enough to know enough to take out the enemy's support systems before attacking. As a result, Wonka and his team were not spared from the carnage that littered the halls; blood was everywhere, as were pools of dark brown, nearly black, liquid that Wonka assumed was KNID blood. He looked to the head of the Loompa team. "We should go to the Command Room; let's hope someone had the sense to hole up in there." Nodding, the Oompa led his team in that direction, holding his gun ahead of him as if it were a dowsing rod that would lead them to any survivors.

They came to the door of the Command Room; it hung awkwardly to the side, appearing to have been rammed inward by some strong creature. Wonka noted the dark streaks that lined the jagged parts where the door had shattered, verifying that it was indeed a KNID that had broken in. They stepped around the broken panel, and were met by a chorus of "Hoorays." A majority of the surviving Loompas had gathered in the spacious command room, the soldiers brandishing their subautomatic rifles until Wonka and his team stepped in. The soldiers lowered their weapons and saluted, and the civilians they had been protecting shouting in excitement. "Is this all of you?" Wonka asked, fearful that the whole of the Oompa-loompa race had nearly been wiped out. "No, sir," one Loompa said. "We've been in contact with other pockets of resistance that were holed up in the Chocolate Room, the War Room, and the Stars in Their Pies Room." Wonka sighed in relief. "Has the KNID problem been neutralized?" The Loompa keyed a sequence of numbers into a handheld computer. "Yes, sir. Apparently a forcefield of some sort is protecting the whole of the base, keeping the intruders at bay, and the surviving military force has destroyed the KNIDs that infiltrated our defense system." Wonka smiled brightly as he looked over the Loompa's shoulder to look at the tiny screen. He was able to make out the shape of a furious KNID, attempting to pass through an invisible barrier in the ether. But no matter how hard it tried, it was unable to penetrate the field. "Take that, you ball of living waste!" Wonka said, laughing hysterically. "Sir, the KNIDs managed to break the forcefields inside the compound. What makes you think this one will keep them away?"

"The internal forcefields were powered by supermagnetic charge. Such bonds are not too difficult to break if you have enough force to do it. But nothing of this dimension could ever hope to overcome Candy Power!" Several Loompas exchanged skeptical glances. "What?"

"The Shield Generator runs on approximately one million Candy Power, or CP. It has already been used for our engines and such, and is infinitely more efficient than any other kind of energy. It just took me a while to figure out how to cast its power for use as a forcefield. We won't have to worry about any sort of attack now."

_Gyraxxian Nebulae_

The servant trembled before his master, knowing from the way the other held the transcriber in a viselike grasp that the news he had brought was not good. Jura Grobe read the message that Engineering had sent him, his beak snapping in agitation as he absorbed the information. The KNIDs had failed to destroy the candymaking human, or Wonka, as he was called. The infernal carbon-based life form had apparently developed a sort of shield that the Destroyers had not been able to penetrate. Grobe repressed a disgusted snort- it wouldn't take much to impede a KNID anyway. The lower-life forms were created only to destroy, and so did not have much in the way of intelligence. He ran a hand over one of his furry ears- a habit he had developed in order to help him think. If this Wonka, a human, was indeed the first of his kind to colonize the moon, and was able to repel the KNIDs; he might then prove to be a most difficult competitor. But then again, if Wonka was a human, his behavior would be quite predictable, and would eventually lead to his downfall. Jura keyed a command into the transcriber, replacing the first message with his own. "You," he said to the servant, who stood shaking, "Take this to Engineering." "Yes, sir." The servant hesitantly accepted the transcriber, then turned to escape the piercing gaze of his master. Jura returned to sitting smugly behind his desk. If Engineering carried out his order, Wonka should soon meet his end.

Charlie Wonka watched from the observatory deck as the newest cargo fleet rose from the moon's surface and into the darkness of space, feeling a slight wave of apprehension as they departed. They would not be safe outside the Candygen field, and he had not yet been able to fit them with field generators of their own before the full waning of the moon. They had no escorts, as the fighter ships were still in the works, but were fitted with several laser cannons on both sides. But tonight was the night of the new moon, and he had to get his shipment to Earth before the planet completed its rotation. With luck, the transports would get through Earth's atmosphere without trouble. Once they were in that barrier of hydrogen and nitrogen, they were safe from KNID attack, but if they were struck before they were able to reach the pocket of protective gasses… Charlie crossed his fingers as he continued to stare out the window. _Fate willing._


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer**: same as always

**A/N**: we're having some trouble formatting this section...text transfers are not always very kind. So if the words look wierd or something, just blame the programming.

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><p><em>Two weeks later… <em>

"I have visual," the shuttle pilot said over his shoulder, and immediately the leader of the Oompa-Loompa team joined him in the cockpit. Dead ahead was the ship, one of the new interstellar transports which had been commissioned to take the Fuhrer's candies to stores on earth. Thanks to limited-gravity construction, Wonka's spacecraft designs were getting steadily larger...the Fuhrer might not have been building Star Destroyers yet, but the latest ships of the Wonka fleet were certainly the largest spacegoing constructs that had ever originated from Earth. The transport in question was roughly a hundred and twenty meters in length, with nearly six times the cargo capacity of the previous model.  
>"Hail them," the commander ordered, and the pilot pressed the TRANSMIT key on the side of his control stick. He spoke into his headset. "Transport, this is shuttle Delta One-Niner, approaching from your stern. Request status, over." The radio brought back nothing but the faint hiss of an open line. "Transport, this is shuttle Delta One-Niner. Acknowledge transmission, over." Nothing. The pilot turned to look at the commander. The other's face was grim. "All right. We're going in." "Copy." The pilot eased in closer to the bulk of the transport, his own ship tiny by comparison. He turned to the co-pilot. "Docking lights on." "Docking lights, aye." Two spotlights flared to life on the shuttle's nose, illuminating the dark flank of the transport. "Her running lights aren't active," the co-pilot noted, a fact that made the pilot all the more uncomfortable. What had happened here?<br>The pilot located the transport's starboard airlock and swung around, pointing the stern of his small craft toward the flank of the larger vessel. "Docking camera." "Camera on." The holographic screen in the center of the canopy flickered to life, showing the airlock door slowly easing toward the left side of the screen. "We shouldn't be moving." The co-pilot looked confused, then promptly began punching numbers into his console. "It's not us, it's the transport. She still has some residual momentum." "Which suggests the crew were in the process of stopping her when we lost contact." It was ominous, but there was no time or place for concern. The pilot made a slight sideways motion of the control stick. "Matching angle and velocity." The camera view stabilized, and the pilot eased the shuttle backward. A series of metallic clanks and pops echoed through the hull as the connection was made. "Equalizing pressure," the co-pilot said. He glanced at his superior. "We're ready."  
>The pilot stood up from the control chair and made his way down the short connecting hallway from the cockpit, past the toilet cubicle, and into the cargo bay which formed the rear end of the ship. Cockpit, toilet, and storage space...about all there was on this vessel, intended for short-range transportation. Not that the pilot was complaining; flying a shuttle may not have been the most glamorous of assignments, but he was still fond of his little craft.<br>At present, his cargo bay was filled with twelve Loompa soldiers in full exosuits, more advanced and less bulky versions of the giant power armor units the Fuhrer deployed in combat. More importantly, the exosuits were fully sealed and temperature controlled, fulfilling the dual roles of spacesuits and body armor. The commander looked over as the pilot entered, his face oddly distorted behind the transparent visor of his helmet. The pilot nodded once, a gesture the commander returned. Then the helmet's visor polarized, hiding his face behind a silvery one-way screen of photoreactive material. The soldier nearest the airlock pressed the activation key, and the portal hissed open. The bulky forms of the soldiers stepped through, the portal closed, and the pilot and co-pilot were alone on the shuttle.

As they stepped into the dark interior of the transport, the Loompas clicked on lamps mounted to the shoulders of their armor. A series of high-pitched whines were heard as lasers were powered up, along with the hiss of flamethrowers. Weapons were shouldered. The commander turned his head slightly, looking back at his men while still keeping the corridor ahead in his peripheral vision. "I want four teams. Alpha, you're with me; we'll check the bridge. Bravo, engine room. Delta, start sweeping the ship. Gamma will remain here and protect our ride. Let's move it out."  
>The commander moved forward on edge, sweeping slowly with his blaster. Left to right, right to left. The corridor was pitch black, an inky darkness alleviated only by the suit lights. Combined together, they lit up the corridor ahead quite nicely...but also left darkness at the soldiers' backs. "Two, cover the rear," the commander said. "Don't want anything sneaking up behind us." Two turned and walked backward, sweeping the corridor. The silence was oppressive, broken only by the clump-clump of boots on steel. "Sir, do you think it's a KNID attack?" Three asked nervously. "I don't know, soldier. And you'd be well advised to stow that notion. We have enough problems without you working yourself into a panic." The commander's rifle swept to the left, and his lights suddenly fell upon...he stopped cold. "What the..." the commander breathed the words, his voice no more than a whisper. "Two, cover us. Three, give me some more light."<br>Three was in the process of complying when he saw what the commander was looking at. He swore, his voice cracking. "CAN IT, SOLDIER!" the commander spat, and Three reluctantly eased forward so that his suit's lights joined those of his superior. In the glaring white of the artificial illumination, the elongated pool of blood looked too dark, more like chocolate. Maybe it was chocolate, but the commander doubted it. "Follow that trail." Three's lights swept to the right, following the line of blood around the corner of a compartment door just ahead. The commander eased slowly up to the opening, his rifle the first thing to enter the room. He snapped around the frame, gun raised...to find nothing. Just the streaks of blood, which made their way up the back of a chair and across the table which occupied the center of the compartment. The commander looked up...to where a ventilation grate had been broken out of the ceiling. Blood dripped from the jagged edges. "What is it, sir?" Three asked from behind him. "Nothing," the commander replied. "Nothing at all." Backing quickly out of the room, he pulled the door shut and engaged the emergency pressure lock, sealing the door tightly. Anything in there could not get out...if it came through the door, which was unlikely. The commander involuntarily glanced up to where huge air ducts ran along under the ceiling. Whatever the thing was, it could be anywhere on the ship.  
>The bridge door was jammed, but with the assistance of their powered suits the Loompas were able to force it open. The commander steeled himself, expecting horrific visions of carnage. But here, like everywhere, there was simply...nothing. The commander keyed his radio. "How are we doing?" "This is Bravo...engine room secured. No sign of the crew." "Copy that." "Gamma, airlock is quiet." "Delta?" Silence. "Delta, come in." The commander felt a chill creep down his spine. "Bravo, do you have a transponder lock on Delta?" "Affirmative." "Check it out, report back. And...be careful." "Something we should know, sir?" "I don't think we're alone." "Roger that."<br>The commander walked over to the captain's chair. There was a half-eaten bar of Wonka chocolate on the armrest. He shook his head. This wasn't good...this wasn't good at all. "Sir," Two said, "I think I can get the CPU online." "Do it, and see if you can't get us some power." Two disappeared beneath a console, and a moment later the bridge lights sprang to life. Two re-emerged. "I think we're in business." The commander nodded. "See if you can get their logs up; we should..." At that moment, the power failed again, plunging the bridge back into darkness. "What happened?" Two again vanished under the console. "I don't...I don't know. Control circuits aren't responding." He stood up, and there was fear in his voice as he spoke. "Something must have cut the lines from the generators...that, or taken the main convertor off-line." "KNIDs." Two whispered the word in terror, backing toward the door involuntarily. The commander glared at him. "It can't be! They're simple organisms, not intelligent enough to..." At that moment, a scream tore across the comm. channel. "Delta? DELTA?!" "This is Gamma! We've got hostiles! They're all over the..." The channel went dead.  
>"We're getting out of here." The commander struggled to control panic. "Can you get the reserve processor on, transmit this ship's logs back to the base?" Two's fingers danced nervously across the keyboard. "Done, sir. Transmitting now. Let's go!" The commander turned toward the yawning bridge door, where Three was standing, gun at his side. Something was wrong. "What are you doing, soldier? We're moving! Shoulder your weapon!" The blaster fell from Three's hand, clattering noisily to the floor. The commander started to move towards him...but then he saw the blood trickling down Three's leg. Three suddenly sprang through the air, knocking the commander to the deck plates. Not sprang...he had been thrown. Hearing Two's shout of alarm and the whizz-crack of laser fire, the commander pushed Three's body aside and saw the hissing thing that had thrown him. He raised his gun and fired, punching a neat hole through the creature's head...but there were more, far more. The commander fired wildly as the things leapt at him, and Two's scream was the last sound he ever heard.<br>Hearing the firing outside the airlock portal, the pilot ran into the cockpit and slammed his hand down on the transmitter key. "What's going on in there?" The voice of one of the soldiers came back, the strained shouting of one fighting for his life. "GO, JUST GO! TELL THEM THEY HAVE TO DESTROY THIS SHIP! DON'T LET ANYONE ELSE BOARD..." The line went dead, and the pilot threw himself down in the control chair and pressed the airlock release. Nothing happened. Jammed? NOW? He hurtled back toward the cargo hold. "We're jammed! Use the emergency release! Cut us loose! What are you doing?!" He entered just as the co-pilot opened the inner hatch, gun in hand. "We have to help..." the co-pilot started to say, but he never had the chance to finish. The creature skewered him through the chest with both of its limbs, knocking him to the floor. The thing looked up at the pilot and let out a slow, menacing hiss. It was a KNID all right...but like none the pilot had ever seen before. It was smaller, more mobile, and far more deadly. In place of a KNID's usual egg-like body, this creature was thinner and much more fluid, almost eel-like. Insectoid legs supported its rear half, while its front was held up by two long scythe-like arms. Its head was almost mantis-like...but with outsized mandibles, lined with fangs and dripping saliva. The creature hissed again and slowly advanced toward the pilot on all fours; too late, the Loompa realized he had left his gun in the cockpit. He backed slowly toward the front of the ship, now silhouetted in the hallway. The creature followed him step-for-step; though his eyes were fixed on it, the pilot was aware of additional movement in the background as more of the hideous beasts boarded his ship and began to devour the remains of the hapless co-pilot. The Loompa was now to the cockpit door, the horrifying new KNID just entering the access corridor...suddenly the beast rose onto its hind legs and made for him with a terrifying burst of speed. With a yell of alarm, the pilot stumbled backward into the cockpit and fell. Turning the upper half of his body, his eyes met a panel covered with yellow-and-black caution stripes...feeling as if he were moving underwater, he reached up, disengaged the panel, flipped the switch beneath...and hit the button. The KNID had just reached the cockpit door, and was neatly sliced in half as the emergency pressure hatch slammed shut. There was a sudden tremendous force of acceleration, and the pilot nearly slid into the upper half of the KNID, which was still thrashing and snapping violently. Seizing his blaster pistol, the pilot fired wildly, letting off a dozen shots in no more than a second or two. The smoking corpse of the KNID lay still, and the pilot threw himself up into one of the two cockpit seats. It occurred to him that he had not taken a breath for some time, and he let out the stale air with an explosive exhalation. He had made it.

The main control stick was still active, and the pilot eased it over, turning the escape capsule with small puffs from the emergency thrusters. Behind was his shuttle, missing the entire cockpit and nose, quite literally headless. Venting atmosphere plumed from its interior, sucking at least a half-dozen of the hideous KNIDs out into space. Whether or not they survived...the pilot hardly cared. At least they could not get him. Within ten seconds, the plume of freezing gas was cut off as the emergency airlock control aboard the transport cycled, sealing off the breach. And a moment later, almost humorously, the command to release the docking clamps was finally processed and the partial hull of the shuttle fell away. The pilot laughed...there was nothing else for it. But actually there was...there was no way to reattach the emergency capsule to the fuselage of the shuttle, but there was a way to ensure these horrific new enemies did not endanger anyone else. "Or at least not this brood of them," the pilot muttered darkly. He glanced back at the partial corpse decorating the floor of his cockpit. The scientists would be interested in that, oh yes. But in the meantime...  
>The pilot activated the remote interface, which ordinarily enabled him to control the shuttle from outside the cockpit. Now it would work the other way around, assuming the transmitters had not been damaged. The headless wreck obeyed his call, its engines still in perfect condition...the pilot engaged thrusters, watching as the poor hulk of his ship motored steadily out away from the transport. At a distance of fifty kilometers, the remote signal started to weaken, and the pilot stopped the shuttle's body and brought it about, making a turn in place. Now with the wreck aimed straight at the transport, he pushed the engines to full. And, just for good measure, he hit the emergency boosters as well. The headless shuttle rocketed toward the flank of the larger ship, its entire back end lit by the brilliant blue-white glow of the engines mounted above its airlock assembly. The wreck slammed into the larger vessel with tremendous force, tearing into its hull. The pilot reached for the last control.<br>At his signal, the shuttle's fuel cell detonated, vaporizing the smaller craft in a rippling explosion. The transport's hull buckled as the detonation rocked it from within, then the ship split in two, wreckage flying everywhere in the vacuum. Atmosphere boiled out, taking with it the remains of both soldiers and KNIDs. Let some of them survive that, the pilot thought. Reaching over he switched on the emergency beacon, and then began initiating procedures for a self-induced hibernation sleep. It would not be long before he was recovered, no more than two weeks...but that was two weeks without food, water, or a bathroom. Not something the pilot cared to contemplate.

_The shockwave cast by the ship's exploding reactor reached across space, flowing past the moon, stretching toward Earth…_

"The energy surge was strong enough to knock out the farthest sensor arrays, my Fuhrer. According to our calculations, its focal point was here." The Loompa-technician pointed to a section on a holographic grid depicting the solar system. Wonka rubbed his chin with one hand, perplexion visible in his eyes. "You don't suppose it could've been one of our missing transports?" The Loompa sighed. "The ships have been lost for nearly a week, my Fuhrer. You know we lost contact with them shortly after they exited Earth's atmosphere, and that their Central Positioning Units were rendered inactive during the hostiles' attack. All our attempts to find them have turned up dry." The technician glanced up at Wonka, whose eyes had lost their usual twinkle. "But... anything is possible." He said, his attempt to lighten the situation sounding weak. Wonka nodded slightly, releasing a disheartened sigh. "What's gone is gone. I'm sad that we lost our vessels, and the brave Oompa-loompas who commanded them, but the best we can do is continue to develop the attack cruisers for use in the next convoy." The Loompa was disturbed by his leader's disconsolate tone, but he acknowledged with a ready nod. "Yes, my Fuhrer."

_Pentagon, Sublevel 13_

Randall read the printout, his brow furrowing in concern. An assistant was at his side, awaiting orders. "When were these readings taken?" James inquired.

"Just this morning, sir; at approximately three forty-five." James nodded, continuing to read the document. The long hours he had been required to fill at NASA were nothing compared to what he had to endure here in the service of the national government. His days now began long before the sun rose, and ended well past normal quitting time. The sheer drudgery of his schedule was beginning to make its marks on his previously unmarred face; his eyes had bags underneath, and his eyes themselves were bloodshot with weariness and worry. He stifled a yawn as he continued to read, and his assistant produced a cup of coffee, which he accepted without a word. His face never lost its worried expression as he sipped at the caffeinated drink while scanning the text, which displayed readings from several satellites currently in orbit. They had apparently picked up an energy burst emanating from outer space, well beyond the moon. It could have been the aftermath of a supernova or an astral collision, but now he not only had reasons for which to verify this, but also the means to find out.

_0345_ _hours, Groom Lake, Nevada_

Great gusts of wind blew unhindered across the expanse of the dry lakebed, kicking up great silvery clouds of dust and salt, sending it up toward the starry sky. The stillness of the night was broken suddenly by a great crackling, and the lakebed itself began to shift, appearing to split in two as giant plates that had made up the lake's riverbed separated, revealing a vast chamber that had lain underneath. And out from this chasm-like chamber flew an enormous, jet-like aircraft, an experimental vehicle that was making its first run into outer space. This streamlined craft was none other than one of the advanced vehicles that James Randall had heard about days earlier in the Pentagon. The first had since been completed and was undergoing its final test; a journey to the moon and back. It was piloted by three men: Mark Shuckworth, Jonny Shanks, and Andrew Showler; they were all astronauts, the best of their class, and specially trained to man this spacecraft. Shuckworth, the designated leader of the three, sat at the controls and maintained a steady course skyward. The craft shook mightily as the thruster propelled the vehicle through the thinning layers of atmosphere, and Shuckworth feared for a moment that they might not be able to make it out of the troposphere without burning out their engine. But they soon reached the outer limits of the gaseous layers; the shuttle was caught in the vacuum of the ether. Shanks wiped his brow free of the nervous sweat that had accumulated there, and the others did likewise. The radio fizzled, and a tinny voice came through. "Shuckworth, are you there? Shanks? Showler?" Showler punched the transmit button, excitement ringing in his voice. "51, this is Showler. We made it out of the atmosphere!" "Affirmative, Showler. And everyone else?" Showler glanced at his comrades, who gave weak smiles in return. "They're fine. Our fuel system looks stable, and there are no breakages in the interior that I can see." "Roger. Great atmospheric exit. Good luck on the next stretch of your journey; report back when you reach the moon." "Affirmative; Shuckworth, out."


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer**: _Ditto_

**Author's Note**: _Any comments would be appreciated. Quips, likes, dislikes...just something to get a feel for what people think of the directions this story goes. Writing a saga without knowing what the readers think is like running blindfolded into a battlefield_.

Sarge: Simmons, what the hell are you doing with that blindfold on? We're under attack, man!  
><span>Simmons<span>: When I was a kid, I thought that if I couldn't see someone, they couldn't see me...  
>gunshot<br>Simmons collapses  
><span>Sarge<span>: (pauses) Poor kid...should've had an editor for his thoughts.

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><p>Shuckworth remained at the controls of the craft, holding their course steady as the vehicle raced through outer space; the thrusters had been turned off, the vessel's momentum alone carrying it through the frictionless vacuum of space. Shanks and Showler had gone below to rest in the small sleeping chamber; they were able to use the tiny cots that had been placed there only because their ship had artificial gravity, enabling them to eat, sleep and move about as they had been accustomed to on Earth. The generated gravity was created using a mechanism similar to the one that had been used in the Space Hotel a few years earlier. Shuckworth thought back to that time, remembering the excitement he, Shanks, and Showler had felt when they had been chosen, above all the other astronauts in America, to pilot the great Commuter Capsule to the illustrious Space Hotel. They were to be among the first to enter the amazing space vehicle and lay eyes on the groundbreaking technology that had been put there, or rather, would have been. They hadn't expected someone else to be up in the ether with them; a tiny vehicle manned by several people had docked and its passengers boarded the Space Hotel moments before they had arrived; eight astronauts that were in disguise, according to the President. Shuckworth, however, had disagreed. He had seen these "astronauts" with his own eyes, and no matter how ridiculous it seemed, he knew that they were what they appeared; four ancient people, three middle-aged people, and one boy who appeared no older than ten. They had gone aboard the Space Hotel, presumably to commandeer it, then abruptly returned to their craft, ejecting themselves from the Hotel and disappearing into the ether. Shortly after the disappearance of the strange spacers, Shuckworth and his men overcame their bewildered state and proceeded to board the Space Hotel. It had all been a mistake though; evil creatures emerged from within the craft and devoured three dozen of the people from the Commuter Capsule. The survivors fled, cramming back into the shuttle, which Shuckworth, Shanks, and Showler steered away from the Hotel with steely calm. They didn't know what those creatures were, but they were confident that the evil beasts couldn't penetrate the tampered steel infrastructure of the Commuter Capsule. They had nearly reached the beginning of the troposphere when the aliens had suddenly struck, ramming the Capsule with their roundish bodies. They had been right; the beasts couldn't infiltrate the ship's hull, but they did manage to destroy the communications node and the rear thrusters. The monsters then proceeded to haul the Capsule back into space. Shanks had become manic then, and Showler had gone rigid from shock. Shuckworth was about to do likewise- so great was his fear- when suddenly the mysterious astronauts from before reappeared and came to their rescue, literally playing tug-of-war with the alien fiends, using the Commuter Capsule as the rope. The brutes were defeated though, all sizzled like sausages during reentry into the Earth's atmosphere, and the mysterious astronauts disappeared behind a cloud bank, leaving Shuckworth and his men to ponder the identity of their rescuers as they directed the craft back to base. Ever since then, Shuckworth had always wondered who those astronauts had been, so brave and fearless despite the ugliness of the aliens that had attacked. It was rumored that Willy Wonka, the fabled candymaker, had been among them. However, before the brave heroes could be conducted to the White House, in order to be lauded for saving the Commuter Capsule and the people aboard it, seven of them were gunned down by a team of armed men that had been waiting outside Wonka's factory. The murderers escaped without a trace, and Mr. Wonka could not be raised for questioning. It had been a sad day; one that Shuckworth had never been able to get out of his mind.<p>

His thoughts returned to the present, his gaze wandering over the countless pinpricks of light beyond the window. _Were there more of those beastly creatures out there now? _He was confident that the craft he now commanded would prove more formidable against alien foes, though it had no defensive mechanisms except the external titanium plating; if these failed, all would be lost. The eight mysterious astronauts would not be there to save them from a horrible fate.

A high-pitched beeping made him look down, and he saw that the proximity sensor had detected something close by; a small craft that was approaching slowly. He jumped from his chair, struggling to push away the wave of fear that was rising in his chest as he ran to the sleeping quarters; if his ship was to be attacked, he would need Shank's and Showler's help to defend it.

A sudden jarring shook the capsule, and the Oompa-loompa inside it coughed, waking slowly from his week-long sleep. Someone had apparently located his damaged craft and had taken it aboard their ship. He stretched, his mind now filled with thoughts of home, food, and working facilities. He gently pushed the glass of the hypersleep chamber, and it opened with a hiss. As soon as the airtight seal had been broken, however, the Oompa was able to hear voices… human voices. As his body was still in the process of reanimation, he found it difficult to move as he clumsily ducked for cover behind the now empty cryogenic capsule. He waited, his formerly inactive muscles protesting in the form of cramps. He fought to control his nervous breathing as the voices neared, their words becoming clear.

"Looks like it was part of something larger, like a shuttle or something."

"Maybe… like a sort of escape pod. Whose do you think it is? Is it even of our world? I don't remember seeing anything like this back on Earth." There was a momentary pause as the other examined the hull of the craft.

"There's a single mark on the side… a 'W', I think. That means it has to be of our world!"

"Possibly…" the other said doubtfully, "Unless that's not a 'W'." He poked the upper half of his body into the small craft, muttering a low invective in astonishment as he surveyed the interior, observing the miniaturized setup he was able to see. "Whoever flew this vessel would've had to be midgets, or dwarves."

The Loompa, still hiding, fought the urge to emit a chagrined growl. The human still surveying the interior of the craft, swore loudly when he caught sight of the carcass of the modified KNID. "What the hell is _that_?" he said, his tremulous cry bringing the other human running from the other side of the intercepted craft.

"What is it?" he asked, panting. The Loompa listened as the exchange progressed, the other offering to fetch their leader, who was apparently manning the controls. _There are three of them, then. _The Loompa thought, his enhanced intellect working full blast. They were from Earth, and had not counted on encountering his craft. They were on their way to the moon, and were fully aware of the dangers that such a mission posed. The Loompa smiled grimly to himself, the specifics of his survival training becoming clear in his mind. _Yes, space is a dangerous place. Ships could be suddenly destroyed; their crew killed, or could abruptly disappear without a trace._

"So, tell me again. Slowly this time." Shuckworth gazed steadily at Shanks and Showler, who had given their report about the intercepted craft in loud, quavering tones. The two exchanged a nervous glance, but proceeded to give their report a second time. "The interior design of the craft appears to accommodate tiny creatures…" "And there was some sort of cylindrical container in the hold…" "And?" Shuckworth prompted, staring questioningly at the other two, whose voices had trailed off. Shanks swallowed. "A carcass, sir." "Excuse me?" "A carcass," Showler said, his voice trembling. "Some sort of oversized mantis alien, or at least, what was left of it. There were no other living things in there that I could see, but I wouldn't be surprised if there were more of those beasts in there." Shuckworth rubbed his chin thoughtfully, the stubble of a beard grazing his hand. He would have to shave within the next twenty-four hours, or if lived they that long, anyway.

"Well, if your observations are correct, and it's just a carcass, we have nothing to worry about, do we? My best guess is that the alien vehicle is a fragment that was destroyed in some catastrophic explosion… probably one that resulted in that energy surge that our satellites picked up a few days ago."

Shanks nodded. "That makes sense."

"And I agree," Showler said, "but what if…" A loud, metallic clanging interrupted him, and the three men bolted upright, alert for danger. Shuckworth flipped a switch on the controls, setting the ship on autopilot. "Ready your weapons, men," he said lowly, reaching for the pistol hidden beneath the pilot's chair.

The three men cautiously made their way toward the proposed location of the clattering… the docking bay. They entered together, holding their weapons before them. But nothing was there, except for the intercepted craft, lying cold and lifeless in the center of the chamber. Shanks laughed nervously. "It could've been the engines or something. After all, this vessel _is_ a prototype."

Shuckworth made no reply, except to continue scanning the chamber. He drew in a sharp breath, causing the other two to look in the direction he was staring. A ventilation grate was lying on the floor, mangled and broken; the air duct it had once covered now an open passageway. "Oh my…" a sudden whirring made the three men turn to see the door of the docking bay sliding shut. "NO!" Shuckworth leapt for the door, but it was too late. It was shut completely, and a locking mechanism sliding into place with a loud *click*. "WHO ARE YOU!?" Shanks screamed at the closed doors, rather gratuitously. "WHAT DO YOU WANT WITH US!?" A kind of chime intoned, echoing in the spacious chamber; the signal that the intercom was being used.

"I should ask the same of you," a small, spiteful voice said. A shiver ran down Shuckworth's spine. He swallowed. "We are the astronauts Shuckworth, Shanks, and Showler from the United States of America. We are on a mission to the moon. We mean you no harm."

There was a moment of silence; Shuckworth could hear his heart thumping loudly in his chest despite the incessant thrum of the ship's oxygen generators. Then the voice came again. "What do you intend to do on the moon?"

It was a bold question, Shuckworth thought, but he was in no position to refuse their captor an answer, especially since it could send him and his men hurtling to their doom with the push of a button. "Our sensors have picked up evidence of unknown activity on the surface of the moon; we have been sent to investigate."

Shanks threw him a disgusted glare. "Why are you answering it?" He hissed.

"Do you have a better idea?" Shuckworth snapped.

"Yeah… HOW ABOUT ANSWERING OUR QUESTIONS!? WHO ARE YOU!?" Shanks yelled.

Showler removed his hands from his ears. "Nice going, Shanks, but I don't think that helps."

Shuckworth nodded grimly. A tapping made them look around. It was coming from the Plexiglas observatory window that made up a part of one wall, which under normal circumstances would allow the crew to look into the docking bay. But now, the crewmembers found themselves looking out of the bay into the interior of the ship. The tapping continued, and they looked down to see a tiny man, no taller than their knees, tapping on the window. He wore a grey space suit that was marked with the same "W" symbol that they had seen on the craft they had taken aboard. Seeing that he had his captives' attention, the creature stopped tapping the glass and picked up the transmitter for the intercom. He smiled beauteously, and spoke.

"I am IP-77, an interstellar pilot. I was part of a rescue mission that went terribly wrong… and was forced to enter cryogenic stasis until my own rescue. You just happened to stumble upon the remnant of my ship, a twist of fate, and unwittingly woke me from my slumber. But, of course, I must thank you," the tiny man continued, a malicious grin spreading across his face, "because now, I not only have a means of returning to base, but captives and a foreign spacecraft to bring back as well, which will undoubtedly help me save face before the Fuhrer."

Shuckworth's face drained of color. _Fuhrer? The creature was German?_

"What are you going to do with us?" Showler asked, fighting to keep his voice level. "Are you just going to keep us here? What about food and water? Working facilities?" He looked fearfully at the tiny man, who chuckled darkly. "Those are the least of your worries, don't you think?" Replacing the transmitter, he stalked away, unquestionably intending to take over the controls. Shuckworth glanced at Shanks and Showler, who had become stiff with fear. _It's almost like what had happened with the Space Hotel incident,_ he thought wryly. Both times, they had been rendered helpless despite their excellent training, both times they had been held at the mercy of otherworldly creatures, and both times they had gone numb with shock. But this time, they might not survive.


	7. Chapter 7

**Disclaimer**: Same

* * *

><p><em>Lunar Base<em>

"My Fuhrer, we have received a transmission from the unidentified craft; it is a message claiming that the pilot is one of the Oompa-loompas who had been sent out on the search and rescue mission a week ago." Charlie Wonka paced across the floor, his hands clasped behind him. "Does he have proof?"

"Y-yes, sir. He has relayed his ship's log, along with his serial identification."

Wonka stopped, pausing to glance at the screen, which depicted the space vehicle that now orbited the moon. It was flanked by two of Wonka's Aurora destroyers, a kind of spacecraft that used impulses to propel itself through space; they were lighter, faster, and more heavily armed than the bulky transports, making dangerous use of candy-powered lasers. Wonka spoke without turning. "Allow him to land, but tell the Auroras to maintain a close proximity… I don't want any more surprises." "Yes, my Fuhrer."

The massive vessel landed in the aircraft hangar, and Wonka realized with a start that it had undoubtedly originated from some sort of primitive species; he had seen enough alien technology to know by the way it landed that it did not belong to an advanced race. Judging from the use of reverse thrusters to make a horizontal landing, he would say the ship had come from… Earth?

He looked down to the Oompa beside him and nodded; the Loompa spoke into his headset, acting as a dispatcher for the security team, a group of five Loompas who, wearing their exosuits, boarded the foreign craft.

IP-77, the Loompa pilot, greeted the five Loompas as they exited the pressure chamber, saluting with a smile. The five returned the gesture, their grins of pleasure at having regained a comrade visible despite the tinted visors of the helmets they wore. "IP-77, it really is you!" one of them said. "What happened to your ship? Where did this one come from?" The pilot smiled dourly. "The ship we had been sent to find had been attacked…other than myself, there were no survivors. Then, we were attacked by…" His voice trailed off as he recalled his brush with death. "It would probably be better if I showed you." He led them deeper into the craft. "Wait, you didn't tell us how you came to possess this ship!"

"I commandeered it, of course," the pilot said, smiling cheerfully. "It's kind of a long story, but we'll have time for that later. I locked the crewmembers in the docking bay, and…"

The loud report of a gunshot reached them, and the pilot broke into a run. "THEY'RE ARMED!" The five security-loompas pulled out their blaster rifles as they neared the chamber, but it proved to be an unnecessary action. The Loompa-pilot's face blanched as he took in what he was able to see through the observatory window. There was only one human now; he was standing over the remains of his partners and the upper half of the KNID that had been aboard his ship. The monster had apparently not died, like he had formerly supposed, and had devoured Shanks and Showler. Shuckworth, reacting with unnatural calmness, had shot the creature through its head, killing it, or at least rendering it helpless until it could regenerate. The human looked up, now seeing the Loompa pilot and his five companions through the window. It was too much for his stressed mind… the pistol dropped from his shaking hand, and he slumped to the floor, having fainted from fear and exhaustion.

_Pentagon, Sublevel 13_

"Seen the news lately?"

"Of course not. I haven't gotten a moment of peace in which I could read the news since I've come to this godforsaken place." James Randall spat his reply, more from weariness than from anger. He turned his head apologetically so that he could face the other, who was gazing patiently at him. "I'm sorry; do go on."

"Well, it seems that our launch from GroomLake caused quite a stir; though the people there already had their suspicions, the test did nothing to give them reasons to abate." He tossed a bundle of booklets to Randall, who eyed them curiously. "They've gotten smart, those conspiracy theorists. The most obsessed of them lie in wait with sensitive photo equipment, and snap photos whenever something moves, hoping they'll get lucky. And they have…" he tapped the booklet, a tabloid from the looks of it, and sighed.

James read the cover. "What is the government is hiding from us?" Below was a picture, nearly blurred beyond recognition from rapid movement of the camera. But James knew; the image contained the experimental spacecraft that had been launched only days before, and had not been heard from since. He picked up the tabloid and flipped through it, scanning the pages. "This is only a tabloid… only the crazies believe them." a headline caught his eye. He stifled a snicker as scanned the text below. "See, these papers are only inane stories mixed in with a little truth. This guy, named JR Chadworth, says that he was the late Willy Wonka's greatest competitor, and staged a colossal battle with him, which he believes ended in Wonka's demise." He threw the booklet down. "The guy's in a mental institute now, his theories unproven. See? Only idiots believe this crap."

"Yeah, that's pretty crazy… I guess you're right; we don't have to worry so much, but we should still be on the lookout… we don't need any breaches in security." He glanced about anxiously. "You don't think Shuckworth…"

Randall shook his head. "At this point in time, I don't know. The man had a stellar record, and had no reason to mutiny. But anything could have happened. After all, it has been almost a day since the launch. They should have reached the moon by now, and should have given us an update. I can't help but think that _we_ are the ones who are doing something wrong_." Or aliens might have something to do with it…_

_Lunar Base, Science Level_

Charlie Wonka walked quickly through the hall, his thoughts almost too preoccupied with thoughts of the intrusion to pay much attention to what the Oompa-loompa preceding him was saying.

"Apparently a new breed of KNID attacked our convoy to earth, rendering it crewless. The remaining vehicles are probably hurtling unmanned through space, unless they have been taken over by some alien species for their own uses."

Wonka noted the spite in the Loompa's explanation, and agreed. The idea that any of their craft was to be stolen by hostile creatures and used for different purposes seemed profane, but there was nothing they could do about it if that was the case.

"And what of this foreign craft?" he asked, curious about the strange vessel that IP-77 had reportedly absconded with. The Oompa-loompa glanced down at the handheld computer in his grip.

"He reported that the humans intercepted his vessel while he was in cryogenic stasis; he was reanimated before they discovered him aboard the craft, and he took control of their vehicle."

"So it is from Earth, then?"

The Loompa nodded. "The ship's log suggests that it is an experimental craft owned and developed by the United States; it was on a test run when it came into contact with our pilot."

Wonka grunted. "Where are they now?"

"Sir?"

"The pilots mentioned in the report; the humans."

The Oompa hesitated, causing Wonka to glance at him. "Well?"

"There's something you should see, my Fuhrer."

He had no words for the abomination that was restrained before him; the new kind of vermicious KNID that had survived blaster shots, gunshots, and starvation. It was no higher than his waist, a fact for which he was grateful, but was nonetheless terrifying. This new breed resembled the Acklays from _Star Wars, _mantis-like creatures with a voracious appetite to match, but on a smaller scale._ Then again, this is only half of it,_ Charlie reflected_, with its other half it would be as large as a man. _The notion made him shudder involuntarily. The upper half of the KNID had survived; the scientists monitoring it surmised that it lived because it was given a regenerative system similar to that of a cockroach, in that it could not grow its body back, but could survive for a long period of time without certain body parts. Undoubtedly the other half would be moving, too… if it had survived the explosion.

Wonka watched now as the KNID paced back and forth within a reinforced Plexiglas container, like an irritated lion on display at the zoo. He kind of felt sorry for it; but then again, it _had_ eaten his Oompa-loompas and the other two humans that had been aboard the ship. He glanced at the container that was on the other side of the room, this one looking as if it held standard living quarters within it. Inside, it also held the surviving human, Astronaut Shuckworth, who had since been revived and placed in confinement. The bewildered pilot stared out from behind the window like a confused child, watching every movement that the Loompas outside made with wide eyes. He had gasped in disbelief when he caught sight of Wonka, and made frantic gestures to communicate to the other to help him. Wonka ignored him, more curious about the cause of the whole rescue directive.

"If I didn't know any better, I would say that this KNID evolved. But since I do know better, I wouldn't say that. I think someone changed the physical structure of the KNID."

"Sir?" The Loompas looked at him inquisitively, wondering what he was on to.

Wonka smiled wryly "KNIDs don't just get up one day and decide to grow scythes-for-arms, spider-like legs, and a mouthful of razor-sharp teeth. That's what Darwin would have you believe, but Darwin didn't know KNIDs. Not like I do."

The Oompa-loompas nodded, agreeing that Wonka _did_ possess an uncanny knowledge of otherworldly beings.

"Like I said, someone has changed them, genetically engineering them for some purpose. KNIDs only come out for one of two reasons: hostile takeover, or to destroy something. In our case, it has always been to destroy us; our base of operations or our ships. Someone must be directing the KNIDs."

"But who?"

Wonka turned to look at the Loompa who had just spoken, meeting his gaze. "I don't know… but I intend to find out."

_Pentagon, sublevel 13_

James Randall paced the floor behind the conference table, his eyes displaying his frustration. "What do you mean 'lost'?

An aide calmly met his incensed glare. "Lost, sir, as in 'we cannot raise communications with the vessel, and its tracking device is no longer functional."

Randall stopped pacing, coming to stand with his hands clasped behind his back. "When did you become aware of this?"

"About three hours ago, sir."

Randall's eyes grew dark, and the aide began to tremble.

"Then for what hellbound reason did you wait until _now_ to tell me?"

His face flushed red with anger, but he quickly composed himself. He turned to glance at the others who had gathered behind him.

"Sorry about that." He said dryly, shaking his head.

"No need to apologize," one replied, and Randall recognized the voice to be that of Natasha Goodman, the woman who had given him his orientation tour on his first day.

"But I must say, James, you are turning into quite the dictator."

She said this with a teasing grin, but Randall privately agreed. A reasonable leader was what they needed; after all, that was the reason they had removed him from the bonds of a normal life and had made him their director, wasn't it? He cleared his throat.

"Yes, well; I believe that is a result from a lack of sleep."

Natasha nodded understandingly. "I can sympathize with that."

After a moment's passing, she continued. "So what do you think happened to them?"

"Shuckworth, Shanks, and Showler?"

She rolled her eyes. "Of course them. Who else?"

James averted his gaze as he thought. "I don't know. Faulty communications, engine explosion, a crash perhaps."

Natasha frowned as she pondered each possibility. "Maybe. But what if it's not that simple?"

A smug grin formed on Randall's face. "Then what? You want to imagine that aliens got them? Ghosts from the past, perchance?"

Her gaze was serious as she replied. "Maybe."


	8. Chapter 8

Cowes, England

The rickety wooden docks were cold and deserted, the normal workers having retreated indoors, and the sailors to their respective ships. Illuminated by a sparse number of towering lamps, the docks and the surrounding warehouses were bathed in dim light. It was here that several dark figures appeared, each in the control of a kind of hovering cart loaded with metal crates. The carts were guided to large pallets in the shadows cast by a warehouse, away from the eyes of any stray night watchmen or security cameras. "Drop the load here, gents." A small voice commanded, and the carts whirred as the crates were lowered through the bottom onto the pallets. The wooden platform creaked with the added weight, and for a moment the cart operators tensed, expecting some suspicious person to leap out from the shadows. But all that was to be heard was their breathing, the electronic hum of the hovercarts, and the distant crashing of the ocean.  
>"All right, our work here is done." The leader said with relief, steering his vehicle away from the loading platform. "In the morning, it should be discovered and shipped." His cart entered full light, revealing the driver for the first time- an Oompa-loompa. His companions, Oompas as well, followed in their vehicles, intending to return the way they had come. But the low hum of an approaching vehicle met their ears as they rounded a bend, and they were blinded by a pair of bright beams. The driver of the other vehicle had apparently seen them and jammed on his brakes, the tires squealing. But it was too late… there was a tremendous crashing and groaning of twisted metal as the other vehicle, an SUV, collided with one of the hovercarts. The cart, designed for toting thousands of pounds at a time, was sturdy enough to deflect most damage gained from impact, and so was still functional after the crash. Despite this, the Loompa who piloted it was severely shaken, quivering in shock when he was revived by his comrades. "Are you okay?" "Yeah." Their companion's well-being assured, the Loompas looked back at the wreckage of the SUV. It was inferior technology as far as the Oompa-loompas were concerned; its lack of titanium plating and unreinforced infrastructure had rendered it weak against their cart; all its windows had been broken, its hood imploded, and one door torn off completely. It was a miracle that it had not exploded, the lead Loompa thought as he noted the puddle of gasoline collecting on the ground beneath the remains of the vehicle.<br>"We banged it up pretty good, but we need to make sure there are no survivors… we don't want them to describe us to the press or anything." "Damn right," another muttered as he leapt from his seat, unholstering his silenced firearm as he did so. "I'll cover you," another said, following. The leader watched them approach the decimated SUV, his stomach knotting in anxiety. They weren't true soldiers, these Loompas. Though basic training had given them the experience they needed to get the job done, they wouldn't have the skills required to extricate themselves from a moment of escalated danger. The two Oompa-loompas neared the driver's window, keeping to the shadows and staying light-footed. They extended their guns ahead of them, turning off the safety as they peered in. "God…" The low explanation made the second Loompa twitch in anticipation. "What is it?" He looked into the hole where the window used to be, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. He was able to see the driver, obviously dead, slumped over the steering wheel, his face pressing onto the dashboard at an awkward angle, the deflated airbag hanging almost humorously to the side of the dashboard. The second man on the passenger side was not dead, but was unconscious, blood dripping from the side of his head where it had been cut by flying glass. A quick burst from the Loompa's handgun put him out of his misery. The Loompas looked past the corpses into the back, drawing in sharp breaths of disbelief. "What the-"

The two had been gone for a while, the Loompa leader thought; he leapt from his seat and approached the wreckage, hoping his eyes would not be confronted with a grisly sight. But before he got there, he met his men and a strange burden they were making an effort to convey back to the carts. "What the hell is going on?" the leader asked angrily, glaring at the other two. "What is that?" He pointed to the cumbersome bundle they were carrying between them. "It's, uh…" He was distracted from answering as the bundle moved, slipping from the Loompas' hands. In panic, the Loompa leader drew his weapon, aiming for the writhing bundle.  
>"Wait!" the other two dove for the gun, batting it from the first Loompa's hand.<br>"What is the meaning of this? What is that thing?" he asked furiously.  
>"Look for yourself, sir." The leader turned and froze, his mouth opening in disbelief as he stared. A small face had appeared from within the bundle, the bright eyes of a young child examining him in curiosity. "A child?" he asked the two in incredulity. "She was in the vehicle, sir, sleeping at the time." "And her guardians?"<br>"Dead and dying."  
>The first gave a low sound of frustration, then sighed. "Well, we can't leave her here; she is obviously too young to survive on her own. Does she have any identification?"<br>"In the vehicle, sir. Shall we retrieve them?" the leader nodded, but stopped as the wailing of sirens pierced the night. "Get her to the carts; we have to get to the rendezvous point before the authorities get here."  
>"Yes, sir."<br>The little girl, now awake, showed no fear as the Loompas pushed her up, forcing her to stand. She was no taller than they, and the two Loompas guiding her found it strange that a creature their height should be considered a child. "Come on, now," they goaded, coaxing her to get to the location of the hovercarts. She followed a little unsteadily, veering slightly as if she was just learning how to walk. The two guiding her feared she would fall at any moment, but they managed to escort her to their vehicles, where the leader explained the situation to the others before they helped the child into one of the carts. "All hovercarts are go." "Roger." The Loompas and their passenger sped into the night, their vehicles hovering low over the dark, rippling water as flashing blue and red lights appeared on the horizon.

"Of all the brainless actions one could have performed, you had to pick this one!" the Operations Director fumed as he paced before the Loompas that had made the delivery to the English shore. They had been picked up via submarine and taken back to the undersea base, thousands of kilometers beneath the ocean. Their unexpected cargo had stirred up quite a bit of attention amongst the Oompa-loompas, drawing stares, snickers, and anger from the superiors. The Loompa who had led the team met his gaze with a steely glare. "We didn't choose the situation we were presented with, sir. There was an accident, as I mentioned before; my men eliminated any and all threats to our mission, and by their own jurisdiction brought the child with them." The other snorted in disgust. "The child is a threat! We can't have a human child down here in the depths of the ocean. We can't waste our time raising a young one… we're in the Fuhrer's service for crying out loud! What made you think that…" He was interrupted by a punch to the face, the other dealing the blow to his jaw. "What would you rather have had us do!?" he asked, his face red with anger. "Shoot her? We can't kill an innocent! And leaving her there wouldn't have been any better… there could have been an explosion if the gasoline from the wreckage ignited, or wild animals could have gotten her or something!" The superior officer glared as he rubbed his reddening cheek, but nodded slowly. "What you say is true. We are not to kill the innocent, but only those necessary in the course of war." He was silent for a moment as he allowed his gaze to wander over the team of Loompas gathered before him. They were not programmed as soldiers, he reflected; their minds still knew compassion and mercy. Of course they would be sympathetic to a defenseless child trapped in a scrapped vehicle. He sighed, then spoke. "The little girl you rescued will be cared for in the medical facility until further notice. She truly is lucky that you came along when you did; the blood testing showed that she had been drugged for some reason." The others exchanged surprised glances, the looks in their eyes revealing the shared intention of going to visit the little one after their dismissal.

The Oompa-loompa peeked into the window of the clinic, resisting the urge to press his face against the glass as he fed his curiosity. He was able to see the child that his team had rescued, sitting quietly on a bed as she was prodded by the doctors and nurses. It was amazing, he thought, that she should be so patient and calm considering the circumstances she had endured. He had inquired of the doctors concerning the child's status. They said that she was about two years old, and was of excellent health despite having been drugged with some kind of anesthesia. The drug had since worn off, and the child was now bright-eyed and delightful, though she said very little. "Why doesn't she talk?" the Loompa had asked, fascinated by the concept of having a child around. "Perhaps she is mute, deaf, or cannot understand… or maybe she has no need to speak." Given this answer, the Loompa contented himself with observing the youngling when she played, slept, ate, or merely watched the bustling of Oompa-loompas outside the window. He was distracted by an electric fizzle coming from his vest pocket, and his attention was directed to the radio he kept there. He pulled it out and adjusted the knob to the correct channel, the static voice becoming clear. "CP-12, are you there?" He pressed the transmit key. "Yeah. What's up?" "You'd better get to the Media Center… the Operations Director requires it." "Affirmative. I will be there shortly."

He cautiously approached the door, almost hating the fact that manually opened doors had been outmoded as it hissed open when he came near. His cover blown, he stepped casually into the chamber, curiously glancing at the screens set into the walls. They depicted feed intercepted from news channels aboveground, the most interesting of them being the one the Mission Director was pointing at. The camera was directed at a pretty blonde woman, who delivered the latest breaking news with passion. "Last night, police found the remains of an SUV and its passengers at the Cowes docks; the vehicle appears to have been caught in a two-way accident, but the other vehicle involved in the accident remains at large. The SUV's driver and passenger, both confirmed killed in the accident, have been identified as John Steward and Erin Chough, the kidnappers of two-year old Melissa Chadworth, the daughter of the renowned JR Chadworth. Mr. Chadworth, when learning of his daughter's kidnapping, was distraught, and offered a great reward for her recovery. However, the child was not to be found with her captors, though her clothes bag and paper identification had been recovered from the wrecked vehicle. The search for the little girl still continues, with Mr. Chadworth himself leading the efforts…  
>"In other news, a shipment of Wonka candies has again been found…" The Operations Director lowered the volume, pausing to look around the room. The Oompa-loompas who had been watching exchanged anxious glances, and CP-12's face lightened a shade. They had Chadworth's daughter?<p>

"You," the Mission Director said, selecting an Loompa beside him, "I want you to investigate the status of Mr. Chadworth… It's been five years since we heard of his sentence to the mental institute. I want to know, how and when did he get out? What is he doing now? How in the world did we not know about it in the first place?!" The chosen Loompa flinched at the Operations Director's visible fury, but nodded. "Right away, sir." He quickly scampered away, and the Operations Director turned to the others behind him. "Well this complicates things, doesn't it?" he muttered, trying to decide whether or not to notify the Fuhrer of this incident.  
>CP-12 flashed him a look. "I would think that you would be happy to have the child here, considering that she is the offspring of the Fuhrer's nemesis." The revelation ballooned in the other's mind, his eyes flashing as he threw the inferior officer a glance. "You… you're right. I will inform Fuhrer Wonka at once." He said this while typing in a message to the Lunar Base, requesting the Fuhrer's attention. But the Lunar Base wasn't answering.<p>

Lunar Base, Detention Level

"What information have you managed to glean from the Astronaut?"  
>"Precious little, my Fuhrer. He told us that he was Mark Shuckworth, an astronaut of the United States, and that he had been sent on a special mission. Nothing else. He seems quite timid and hesitant to answer our inquiries… but I wouldn't blame him for his fear of us."<br>Wonka smirked. "Nor would I. Have you attempted interrogation with Giggle Juice? I hear it is a very effective tactic."  
>The Loompa shook his head. "Not yet. OS-22 stated that it should be used only as a last resort. Not every form of questioning has yet been expended."<br>"And I respect his jurisdiction. Do as you see fit."  
>"Thank you, my Fuhrer."<p>

Gyraxxian Nebula, 0501

Jura Grobe's beak snapped loudly, echoing through the chamber. The attack on Wonka's convoy had gone considerably well; his new KNIDs had eliminated the crew on each ship, leaving them unmanned to float through the endless ether. Undoubtedly their owner had lost an unfathomable profit, though Grobe didn't really care. All that mattered was his desire to make Wonka's existence in Grobe's territory as painful as possible. What would happen if he were to actually eliminate Wonka, he didn't know, nor did it really matter. Wonka was worthless, a meaningless carbon-based life form. His very existence in Imperial ether was profane, but if the Empire had allowed him to remain there, it wasn't Grobe's business. Not that he could attack Wonka's base of operations if he had wanted to; the candymaker's base was shielded by some impenetrable field. But the moment his ships exited the protection of the shield… Grobe would send his forces to attack. He would get this human to regret coming to outer space, no matter what it would take.

Undersea Base

"Your report, sir." The assistant held out the compboard with an outstretched hand, the other Loompa promptly snatching it from his grasp. "Thank you. You are dismissed." The Loompa nodded and left, leaving the other to read from the tiny screen in solitude. He eagerly drank in the information that the aide had unearthed.  
>"JR Chadworth, son of SX Chadworth, was convicted of an international offense and several other crimes relating to the misuse of dangerous materials. He pled insanity and was sentenced to mental rehabilitation. Three years later, JR was released from the institute; the testing done by a Dr. Corson showed that Mr. Chadworth had indeed been returned to a state of mental stability. Upon his return to society, he reclaimed his assets; reviving all branches of the dormant Chadworth Industry, save for a section labeled only as the Xavier Project. His popularity rose steadily, until his products were only fourth on the list under Nestle, Hershey, and Wonka. A year after the reopening of his business, JR Chadworth married Sarah Tolbert, who gave birth to their daughter Melissa Chadworth the year after. The family was all but secure however; jealous competitors conspired together and kidnapped little Melissa, who was four at the time. Her parents were frantic at her disappearance, and offered a large sum for her safe return. On the night of the child's disappearance, however, the kidnappers were found, both dead. The papers describing their plot were uncovered, though Melissa Chadworth was not with them."<br>The Loompa closed the compboard, smiling wryly himself.  
>"That's because she's with us." He glanced at the communicator strapped to his waist. The Fuhrer still needed to be informed.<p>

Pentagon, sublevel 13

Randall had long since stopped his pacing, retiring to a chair that was set at the head of the conference table. Several other members of the supervisory board were present, each sitting silently, their eyes darting warily about.  
>"As you all know, our vehicle has now been missing for twenty four hours," he began, shuffling a pile of papers resting in front of him. "We have no idea what has happened; the communications and pinpointing devices just went out."<br>"Like in the Twilight Zone,"  
>Randall threw the commenter a sardonic glance and nodded. "Yes, that is the way it would seem. It is as if our vessel entered some sort of interspace 'Bermuda Triangle', the way the systems were disrupted and just disappeared." He slid his hand through his disheveled hair as he thought. "The ship was lost somewhere between the Earth and the Moon; which means we have nearly 200,000 kilometers of ether to investigate." He sighed wearily. "Any ideas of how and where to begin?" He looked into the eyes of the others. No one made any suggestions.<br>"Wait," Natasha Goodman spoke suddenly, her eyes lighting up with an idea. "We could send the probes out, to investigate the site, and to survey the suspicious activity on the moon, since the astronauts never got there."  
>"We don't know that for sure," another said lightly, "But that is a sufficient plan. The prototype AI probes do need a test run as well; I hope they do better than our spacecraft if you agree to let them run."<br>Randall grunted. "So be it. I wouldn't have thought of anything better; and there is little else we can do now. Send out the AI probes."  
>"Right away, sir."<p>

Lunar Base

Wonka"s eyes jerked open, allowing him to see that he was still in bed, and that only a few hours had passed since he had gone to sleep, immersed in the strangest dreams. He swallowed, the specifics of his dream returning to him. He had met with his predecessor, William Wonka, in a moonlit graveyard on Earth. Unbelievable, but then again, Wonka's life had been unbelievable. But if the dream had been real, then that meant that Wonka's instruction had been real, too. This in turn meant that Charlie must somehow resume the skirmishes against JR Chadworth, his father's arch enemy. How could I possibly… the door to his room slid open with a hiss, permitting entrance for three Oompa-loompas. Wonka sat up, and the Loompas approached… "What is it?' "Sir, we've received transmission from the Undersea Base. They say they have encountered an anomaly." "Which means what?" "They wouldn't say, my Fuhrer. They expressed a fervent desire to tell you personally." "Well, whatever it is, it had better be good."


	9. Chapter 9

**Disclaimer**: if you didn't bother reading the disclaimers before, all Charlie and the Chocolate factory references, ie Wonka, Oompa-Loompas, etc., belong to Roald Dahl and related entities. You know. In case you didn't realize that before.

**Author's Note**: Review please! Are the chapters too long? Should they be cut into smaller sections? Is Darth Vader Luke's father?

The reader is the boss!

_Lunar Base_

Charlie Wonka looked seriously at the telescreen, having some trouble digesting the latest news. His workers on Earth apparently gotten in the middle of kidnapping attempt that ended in _them_ abducting the child. He wasn't quite sure what to make of it.

"She is with you, then?"

"Aye, sir." The Oompa-loompa answered Wonka, his voice only slightly distorted by the process of transmitting across space. He met his leader's gaze through the telecommunicator, analyzing Wonka's every movement. The other, meanwhile, was wondering about the undersea base's newest acquisition: the progeny of JR Chadworth. After a moment, he cleared his throat. "Where is the child?"

"In the infirmary, my Fuhrer."

"Infirmary?" Wonka echoed, anxiety briefly appearing in his eyes.

The Loompa noted this, and quickly added, "For economical purposes; to keep her out of the way."

Wonka blew a puff of air, visibly relaxing. "She is fine, then?"

"Yes, sir."

Wonka sniffed. He would need the child in good health if he were to use her against his father's enemy, his enemy. The thought sickened him, but it was a necessary evil that he would have to commit, for the sake of his father's legacy. The only question is, how? Charlie shifted in his seat, calculating. He couldn't risk going out with the next convoy to earth, assuming there _was_ a next one; the KNIDs always seemed to be nearby, threatening the survivability of the fleet. Of course, if he managed to get the CP shield generators installed on the new ships, it would be an easy matter to repel the blasted interstellar pests, and for him to visit the place of his origin. The thought of going to earth made his spine tingle. Was it really as beautiful as the images he had been shown by the computer? As intriguing as the ones stored in his mind? He held memories of breathtaking places he had never been to or enjoyed for himself; a fact that frustrated him to no end. But he would go there someday, if only to bring vengeance upon JR Chadworth. Charlie got up from the chair, a determined look making its way to his face. He would get to earth, end Chadworth, then return and discover the menace who was unleashing the KNIDs against him and his forces. Risky? Yes. Logical? No. But he felt that he couldn't sit around any longer. Wonka was going to take action.

The Oompa-loompa examined the blueprints in his hand, his brow furrowing in concentration as he attempted to make sense of the intricate details. He threw a glance at Wonka, who returned the look with expectancy. "Well?"

The Loompa scratched his head. "According to my calculations, it would take a maximum of four days in order to modify eight craft to your specifications." He turned for a moment, looking carefully over the fleet of ships docked in the hangar. "That's two a day, and only if all goes well the first time, so that there are no delays. Is that acceptable?"

Wonka frowned. "Acceptable? No. But if it's the best you can do, so be it. I will only be using four for the convoy anyway." He shifted his gaze to look into the hangar as well. "I will check back in four days. Do not disappoint me."

Though he said this without looking at the Loompa, the chill in his voice was enough to make the other tremble. "Of course not, my Fuhrer."

_Pentagon, Sublevel 13_

The bank of monitors was alive with feed from the five AI probes that had been launched at noon, now depicting the infinite blackness of space. The brightness of the stars against the velvet ether was difficult to ignore in the absence of sight-impairing air pollutants, and each operative gathered before the screens could not help but take a moment to appreciate the beauty of outer space. Randall, too, took a moment to regard the incomparable splendor of the universe, but then resumed his nervous pacing. "James, sit down. You're making me tense." Natasha Goodman spoke with an upraised brow.

Randall blushed, but obeyed. "Sorry… I just can't help myself."

Another snorted. "I used to not be able to help myself when I smoked weed, but you don't see _me_ using that as an excuse, do you?"

"Yeah, well it's illegal to smoke here, never mind smoking marijuana."

"… I guess you're right."

They watched in silence for a few moments, the only sounds were of operatives tapping away at their keyboards.

_Gyraxxian Nebula_

"Sir, we are detecting vehicles emerging from Earth's lower atmosphere and have their course set for earth's moon. "What course of action do you suggest?"

Grobe snorted in spite, ending it with a loud snap of his beak. "Do you have to ask? Send in the KNIDs, the new ones. No one gets to or from the moon… not if I can help it."

_Pentagon, Sublevel 13_

Randall was idly twiddling his thumbs as he stared at the screens. One of them suddenly went blank; it took them all a moment to realize it, but when they did, the operators became alive and began typing like mad, attempting to pinpoint the problem. "Sir, the problem isn't the monitor, it's a systems error. The probe is no longer functioning" Randall didn't answer. His eyes were glued to the screens, which had panned at the first moment of disruption. The five probes, each about the size of a bed, were being attacked by hideous creatures that reminded Randall of praying mantises. They were ripping out the vital systems of the probes, dodging the feeble attempts of defense that the probes had been designed to use. Randall and the others could only stare dumbly as they watched their robotic surveillance team get torn to smithereens. Only after the second screen faded to snow did they move, all of them beginning to speak at once.

"What the hell are those things!?"

"Where did they come from?"

"Hell itself, probably."

"Were those the things that eliminated our first ship and its crew?"

"Wouldn't doubt it."

Randall cleared his throat, causing the others to look his way. "It's clear that these space monsters were the most likely causes of Shuckworth's, Shank's, and Showler's disappearance. So the question now is, what are we going to do about it? Those things can easily tear those steel probes to shreds! What if the International Space station is next?"

"Come to think about it," another added, "We haven't heard from them in a while."

Randall threw him a scathing glare. The man became silent.

"Is there anything we can do?"

Randall shook his head. "I don't know."

_Control Room, Lunar Base_

A Loompa-technician emitted a low expletive, causing Wonka to look in his direction. "What is it?"

The Loompa tore his gaze from the screen that depicted feed from the sensor arrays positioned around the moon. "Sir, I think you should come see this."

Wonka stepped over, curious. He glanced at the monitor and gasped. Five spacecraft were being attacked by the new breed of vermicious KNID, which were apparently able to survive without oxygen. The vehicles were being torn to pieces at a rapid rate. Wonka began to squirm. "Those craft are from "Earth, yes?"

The Loompa glanced down at a sheet of paper, reading an analysis. "Yes, sir, they appear to be unmanned probes; no telling what they were sent out for, though."

Wonka frowned, but his eyes suddenly became very bright. "Let's do mankind a favor; send out the Auroras."

"What?"

"The destroyers; they still need to be tested against the KNIDs anyway."

The Loompa bit his lip in apprehension, but nodded. "Right away, sir."

_Pentagon, sublevel 13_

The people stared as the remaining probes malfunctioned one by one, frozen by horror as the work of their hands was utterly destroyed by extraterrestrial fiends. However, as the last probe was about to be attacked, there was a blinding flash of light, and the one of the alien monsters began to turn black.

"What the…"

The aliens turned their heads to look at something that Randall and the others could not see; opening their mouths and exposing rows of gleaming teeth in a soundless snarl. They suddenly leapt away from the probe, presumably to attack the intruder. The probe, having escaped system impairment, panned slowly to take in the scene.

Randall gasped. "What is that?"

_Control Room, Lunar Base_

Wonka watched as the Auroras cruised through the ether using the impulse system that they had been given. "Engaging shields." The Oompa-loompas that piloted the three destroyers activated the CP forcefields, the candy-powered shield nearly invisible, except for a translucent pink that indicated its boundaries.

"Enemy sighted; firing primary lasers… now."

Ignoring the downed probes, the destroyers neatly vaporized the KNIDs, which had turned to attack, but it was too late for them. They each were blasted by the ship's CP lasers, blackening until they were nothing more than space dust. As a final measure, the Auroras turned, and fired a single beam at the remaining probe, causing it to explode in a brilliant burst of light and metal pieces.

_Pentagon, sublevel 13_

Randall had no words for what he had seen… a type of advanced spacecraft that exuded power that he could only dream about possessing; forcefields and laser technology, the ability to cruise at unimaginable speeds through space… but it was also a hostile thing, as it had destroyed their probe along with the monsters. He glanced at those around him, who were exchanging looks of wonder and bewilderment. There was a third party mixed in with this alien business, another country whose technology had surpassed their own, or perhaps some kind of sentient life that held malice toward the monsters that had attacked their probes, and against any invaders in their territory.

One operator spoke, his eyes filled with uncertainty. "What do we do now?"

Randall shook his head. "Nothing. I don't think there's anything we _can_ do."

_Gyraxxian Nebula_

The servant quaked before Grobe, who was reading the report of the KNID defeat with an indecipherable expression. "Is this all the news that you have to bring?"

The servant nodded, his trembling having become uncontrollable. Suddenly, Grobe emitted an aggravated growl, opening his beak wide. The servant leapt up, intending to bolt out the door, but he never made it. Before he could blink, he was seized by Grobe's tongue, which had shot out faster than the eye could see; and stuck to him like that of a frog, pulling the victim into the attacker's mouth. There was a sickening gulp as Grobe swallowed, and the servant was no more. The snack helped him feel better, but the human problem still existed, a fact that made his stomach turn uncomfortably. The last venture to the Earth system had been a disaster; a whole pod of modified KNIDs had been vaporized by leaser weaponry. Wonka's technology was getting better, he reluctantly admitted. After the thought, however, Grobe grunted in disgust. Humans still were predictable, banal creatures, as he had noted before. A slight change would throw them off, and ultimately lead to their downfall. He cleared the message on the transcriber, writing a new one intended for Engineering. They would need to change the KNIDs again, as they had before… or suffer the consequences. Grobe paused after he had finished writing. He needed another snack.

_Aircraft hangar, Lunar Base_

The upgrades to the ships had been completed, tested, and approved. Oompa-loompas swarmed the hangar, loading transport vessels to the max with crates of delicious Wonka candy to be distributed on Earth. A particular throng of workers also crowded around the four ships on the centermost platform, waving and cheering as the Furher appeared.

"Sir, are you sure you desire to depart on this journey?" the Oompa-loompa asked Wonka worriedly as he began to make his way to one of the Auroras.

Wonka nodded solemnly. "I've never been to Earth before, for one, and also there is some sensitive business that I must attend to undersea."

The other nodded, hesitation visible in his eyes. "What are we to do in your absence?"

Wonka thought for a moment. "Continue on as before; I'm leaving OS-22 in charge."

Another Oompa-loompa came up behind Wonka, tugging lightly on the hem of his coat. "It's time to go, my Fuhrer."

Wonka glanced behind him and nodded in affirmation, then proceeded to follow the Loompa up the ramp.

"Preflight systems check complete; you may proceed when ready." The Loompa from the Control Room spoke into the mike, audible only through the speakers in the pilots' helmets.

"Roger. Engaging impulse drive, now."

Wonka watched from his seat in the cockpit as the Loompa-pilot activated the systems, now able to feel a vibrating sensation from his chair as the engines cycled up. The pilot gave a signal to the Control Room, prompting them to open the hangar door. The panel slid open, the oxygen in the room vaporizing into a white mist. Wonka took in the hostile beauty of the lunar landscape, glowing starkly against the blackness of space. It was amazing… He was suddenly thrown back in his seat as the ship lurched forward, the Loompa-pilot howling in delight. "Yee-haw!"

Wonka threw him a disgusted look as he straightened in his seat, but smiled after a moment's passing. Their craft was followed by two more Auroras, and the enhanced transport that carried a large stock of Wonka candies. Wonka observed their progression through the screen to the left of his seat. He grunted in satisfaction. "Engage shields now."

"Yessir." The four vehicles activated the forcefields in unison, and Wonka sighed in relief. They were safe from harm now; all they had to do was get into earth undetected.

The trip to earth had been uneventful; Charlie Wonka was slightly disappointed. He had wanted to see a battle with the KNIDs up close, watch them being fried by his invention. But they encountered nothing but hunks of space debris, meteors and ice fragments. Only when they reached Earth's upper atmosphere did Wonka begin to worry; he didn't know if the CP shields would hold out against the air friction resulting from reentry.

The Loompa pilot, however, didn't seem to be anxious at all. "Entering Earth's atmosphere; lowering speed to Impulse 1." The other craft made the same adjustment, and they all fell from the heavens at the same rate, the shields glowing brightly as they began to heat up. After a few moments of intense heat, shaking, and roaring of flames, the Loompa pilot pressed several buttons at once, simultaneously deactivating the shield and engaging reverse thrust. The ship jolted to a halt, becoming motionless for a spit second before it began to ease forward on impulse 1. There was no more roaring or shaking, so Wonka could now make sense of what was happening. He looked briefly into the screen, verifying that the three other vehicles had undergone the same procedure and were now following closely behind their craft. They were only a few hundred feet above the ocean, the water dark and menacing in the moonless night. Wonka was able to see towering waves crashing and roiling about, and he shuddered to think of what it would be like to be trapped in the ocean's cold grasp at this time of night. His attention was abruptly directed to a brief flash of light down below. The pilot had seen the flash, too, and now nosed the vessel downward. The four craft executed a horizontal landing pattern, coming to rest on the decks of the three seagoing aircraft carriers, engines cycling down moments afterward. The Loompa-pilot pulled off his helmet and glanced at Wonka. "Are you ready, my Fuhrer?"

The other only nodded, wearing a look of determination as the ramp was lowered.

_Pentagon, sublevel 13_

Everyone had settled into a kind of sober mood. Feeling utterly helpless can do that to a person, and right now James Randall was feeling pretty helpless.

He sighed, mulling and brooding to himself as he nursed a cup of coffee. At a time like this, he would have preferred a stiff drink to the caffeinated dishwater they had the nerve to call coffee, but alcohol wasn't readily available within a ten mile radius of the Pentagon, not even to the people who "didn't exist to society". Of course, sulking about it wouldn't help, Randall knew, but it was better than sitting stoically, doing nothing as Natasha Goodman had been doing for three hours. Even in the face of defeat, she remained at her station, monitoring feed from around the world. Randall had to admire her determination, even if it was ill-placed, but he didn't really feel anything at the moment, save for the bitterness of defeat. He looked down at his cup. It was empty. He was debating whether or not he should get up to refill it, or call one of the assistants to do it, when he felt an urgent tap on his shoulder. He jerked his head around, glimpsing Natasha behind him. She wore a frown. "Yes?"

"There's something you should see."

Randall sighed. "Don't you get it, Natasha? We can't do anything now. Our level of technology simply isn't advanced enough to match that of the extraterrestrial."

She sighed impatiently. "You don't understand. Look at this." She handed him a printout. He took it in one hand, but set it on the table without looking at it. "Natasha, if the people of earth stay on earth, everything will be fine. There's no way they could have heat shielding; they would get vaporized if they tried to get in."

"Just look at the damn picture, James!"

Randall paled at her outburst, but he complied. Turning the sheet over so that the picture faced him, he took a good look at the image. It was of poor quality, but he was able to discern what it entailed. His face paled even further.

Natasha looked evenly at him. "Do you understand now?"

He nodded, but said nothing.

"This photo was taken last night, by one of our satellites. The image quality is poor because there was no moon that night, and there was pretty decent cloud cover. And get this: the UFOs were observed entering the atmosphere. Purposely. They were assumed to be meteors at first, since they glowed so brightly before seeming to disappear, but actually they stopped about a hundred feet above the water. They then disappeared over the horizon, out of range of our satellite."

Randall nodded as he smiled wryly, the scenario giving him an odd sense of déjà vu. This is exactly how it had been when he had first detected the alien vessels, the occurrence triggering a chain of events that had ultimately brought him here, to the bowels of the Pentagon. Now he was no one, working for the government on a pension he would never be able to use because he no longer existed to the public. This knowledge had given him a grudge that he held against the alien craft. And now that they were on his turf, he could get even. He turned to Natasha. "Alert the others. We need to get defense systems up."

Confusion clouded her eyes. "What?"

"The aliens are here, on earth. We don't know where they landed, or what their intentions are, but if we get some of our own forces to watch the skies around their location of their entrance, we may be able to catch them as they try to break free of the atmosphere, when or if they decide to leave."

Natasha looked unsure; Randall could see it, but she nodded. "Right away."

_England_

The stately manor rested in the center of fifty acres of well-groomed lawns and forests, sitting proudly atop the estate like a shining crown atop a king's head. A stone walkway served as a path from the driveway to the door, its pebbly consistency normally visible and added to the hominess of the property. But today, the driveway was crowded by a host of vehicles bearing the insignias of local news stations; the door and walkway virtually blocked by a traffic jam of bodies dressed in business clothes and boasting microphones and cameras. A disheveled man stood before the door, attempting to use himself as a barricade to keep the jackals from breaking the door down and storming into the house.

"Mr. Chadworth will not be answering any questions concerning–"

"Does Mr. Chadworth have enemies in the Mafia?"

"Are he and his wife afraid that the kidnapping will affect the company?"

"What is his standing on the war in Afghanistan?"

"Does the child's disappearance have any relation to the trial involving Mr. Chadworth five years ago?"

At this inquiry, the butler's face reddened. He held his hand up to his mouth and gave a sharp whistle, making the reporters look up. The crowd instantly hushed.

"As I have said before, Mr. Chadworth is not available to answer any questions." With this said, he opened the door behind him and slipped inside, barring the panel after it shut; the deadbolt clicking into place. He let out an exhausted sigh as he straightened his suit and ran a hand through his hair; this was not at all how a butler should look, he chided himself, despite the fact that he had just faced a mob of reporters. _Those people were out for blood._

Satisfied that his appearance was decent, he walked through the atrium to the living room, a few feet down the main hall and to the left. He took in the scene silently, as a butler should.

JR Chadworth sat on the cream colored couch, his wife next to him. She was asleep on his shoulder, apparently having worn herself out by crying. The butler knew this because her eyes were red and puffy. JR Chadworth looked no better; his eyes were bloodshot from worry and restlessness, and his formerly dark-toned hair betrayed a streak of grey. Resting on the floor before them was a collection of various toys, Melissa's toys, which ranged from teething rings to blocks and rag dolls. _This is where the young one had been accustomed to playing_, the butler remembered, and the toys had been left in this very spot on the night of her kidnapping. The butler thought briefly about picking up the objects of play and putting them in a place for safekeeping, but he dismissed the notion. It seemed like sacrilege to remove these reminders of the young mistress; they should remain in place in her remembrance. He shook his head slowly, sobered by the moment. JR lifted his head, his sad eyes flicking to the butler.

"Marcus, what is it?"

His voice held the air of resignation, something that Marcus had never hoped to hear in his employer. "I came to tell you that the jack… reporters are gone, and that your tea is ready."

JR gave a slight smile. "Thank you. But I think I might need something stronger than tea."

"I see… Would brandy suffice, sir?"

"Yes, I think it would."

_Atlantic Ocean_

Charlie Wonka felt elated; standing on the ship's deck was exhilarating, never mind that the sight of the churning water below made his stomach knot uncomfortably. The Oompa-loompas that crewed the ship had come out to greet him, awed by the very presence of the Fuhrer himself. Wonka took their admiration in stride, and asked how long it would be until the submarines broke the surface.

"A couple minutes, my Fuhrer."

"Excellent." He glanced at the Loompa-pilots, who had gotten out of their vehicles as the ship's crew set about unloading the goods and refueling the spacecraft. They stretched, enjoying the feel of the salt breeze on their faces. "Are you going to return to the Lunar Base after refueling?"

One Loompa eyed his leader, his brow knit in concentration as he considered whether or not it was a question or an order. "Yes, my Fuhrer. So if you are going to stay… "

"… I will have to wait a month until you return." Wonka finished. The Loompa nodded solemnly. "I'm afraid so, sir." Wonka shrugged. "It's alright, I suppose, considering I might need the time to settle a little… problem with one of my competitors." His eyes darkened for a second, causing the Loompa to squirm. "Well, I had better go prep the ship for takeoff." He said slowly, as an excuse to get away. "Wonka dipped his head. "You are dismissed." He felt a tug on the hem of his pants, prompting him to turn. A Loompa stood before him. "What is it?"

"The submarine has arrived, my Fuhrer." Wonka nodded. He would soon be in his new home.

The thick glass window of the undersea base's infirmary reflected the light of the fluorescents above, preventing Charlie Wonka from seeing into the room until he was about three feet from the transparent barrier. When he got there, he stopped, pausing to take in the scene. What he was able to see within the chamber made his heart melt: a little girl, dressed in the standard Loompa-uniform that had been tailored to fit her frame, sat in the middle of the floor, occupying herself with several handmade toys; contained inside a makeshift playpen. Her brown hair had been swept away from her face into two pigtails, keeping her bright hazel eyes from being hidden by her shoulder-length locks. Wonka allowed himself a chuckle. Apparently his Oompa-loompas had found the child's presence intriguing, and so doted on her whenever they got the chance. He himself suddenly felt a certain fondness for the little one, despite only having just laid eyes on her. It was a feeling he had been unprepared for, and he shook his head as he walked away, attempting to clear it of the sticky compassion that had lodged itself in his mind. After several shakes, the unfamiliar emotion dissipated, replaced by firm determination. He had no time for empathy; he had business to attend to.

"How are you faring in my absence, OS-22?" Wonka looked intently into the screen, where he was able to see the distinctive face of the Oompa-loompa he had chosen to take his place while he himself remained on Earth. The Loompa grinned, the terrible scars on his face causing the skin to crease more that it should have. "Considerably well, my Fuhrer. Candy production is at one hundred percent, the products being stored in the underground storerooms in anticipation of the next shipment. The chocolate supply is stable, as are our sugar and oxygen reserves."

"And the prisoner?"

The Loompa's grin straightened. "He has been… difficult. We have attempted on several occasions to goad him into answering our inquiries by brute force, but each attempt only makes him more determined to remain silent. Not even Giggle Juice seems to have the desired effect on him. It seems that he has decided to either escape or die; despite the fact that he believes his supporters have given up on him."

Wonka nodded in agreement. "They probably have. It's been a few weeks since his initial contact with us. Maybe they have forgotten him entirely by now." he rubbed his chin thoughtfully, frowning. "Did you ever identify the owners of the craft?"

"Yes, my Fuhrer. Intel reports that the vehicle is a highly classified piece of government property, the branch that made it is top secret, cannot be revealed, blah, blah, blah."

"But you found them?"

"Of course, sir."

"Any idea how I might reach them?"

Now it was the Loompa's turn to frown. "Their base is in Washington D.C., in the Pentagon; or under it to be precise. Basement thirteen. No idea why they are based so deeply underground if it is associated with space travel."

Wonka gave a short laugh. "Probably for the same reason I have preferred for so long to keep my business under the earth; to keep it secret, and for all the room the subterranean world has to offer. Any chance one might be able to break into their database?"

"For you, my Fuhrer, anything is possible."

Wonka smirked. "All right, then; have Intel work on that for me, and tell me when they get something. I have an idea that might get Mr. Shuckworth talking, and possibly get those associated with him to stay out of our hair."

OS-22 cocked his head, but nodded. "Affirmative, my Fuhrer."

Wonka dipped his head in dismissal, then switched off the telecommunicator. He smiled grimly when he stepped away from the console, as he produced an envelope from within his coat. _Now for the next order of business… _

_England_

"Sir, the mail has arrived." Marcus the butler called to JR from the doorway of the study. JR raised his head from his hands and turned from the desk, swiveling slowly in his chair to face him.

"What's in it?" His voice sounded dull, as if he didn't really care what happened anymore. Marcus was about to comment about it, but he checked himself, reminding himself that good butlers do not contradict their masters under any circumstances. He leafed through the mail, naming the criteria they fit before shuffling them to the back of the pile. "Bill, junk mail, junk mail, bill, spam, charity request which is spam, cooking magazine…" he came to a plain envelope whose return address was a PO Box, and the only clue to whom it was from was an elegantly drawn "W" above the return address. He raised a brow in curiosity. "There's an envelope addressed to you, sir."

"Who is it from?"

Marcus hesitated. "I'm not sure, sir. All it says is "W".

JR sat up suddenly, his body tensing. "Let me have it."

Marcus frowned, but complied, holding it out to his employer. JR snatched it from him, and without taking any precaution whatsoever, he tore it open and pulled the sheet of paper out from within, a letter that had been written in graceful penmanship. He allowed his eyes to scan the words, searching for the purpose of this letter. Finding it, he read carefully, looking for clues to where the writer of the letter may be. But there were no clues in this letter, just a brief note explaining that the young girl, _his daughter,_ was in good hands. She was being well cared for, the letter said, but the captors would not be able to return her… unless Chadworth was willing to negotiate with them. Enraged, JR was about to tear the paper to shreds, until his eye caught the signature down at the bottom. A single word, scrawled beautifully across the page, which made his blood freeze. _Wonka_.

"Sir, are you all right?" Marcus had noted JR's face turning deathly white after reading the signature, and had become greatly concerned.

Chadworth took a moment to reply, but when he did, Marcus did not miss the uncontrollable trembling that had taken over his voice. "Marcus, I think I would like a drink right about now…"

_Undersea _

Charlie Wonka rubbed his hands together in anticipation. The first procedure had been set into motion, moving as quickly as the mail truck that carried his letter. Chadworth would soon be suffering from emotional breakdown, which would lead to his downfall. But the second part would be much more difficult, he knew. Government systems weren't the easiest things to break into. But even still, he would do it; he had to, because doing so would ultimately make Chadworth's life miserable. He mentally reviewed the security checklist that Intel had sent him, then cracked his knuckles before sitting in the chair set before the computer, listening to each joint snap satisfactorily. Now relaxed and prepared, he began to type, pausing only to glance momentarily at the screen. With the speed of a practiced hacker, he broke into the "secret space program" branch of the government database, amazed at the ease at which he was able to do so. _Easy as pie,_ he thought to himself. He gleaned precious information from the site, backing out only after he had learned all that he had come for. With a smile, he left the location, along with a painfully obvious trail. But it wasn't his trail that he had left for the government operatives to follow…

Next, his fingers still flying, Wonka broke into the computers that assisted the well-being and finances of a well-known corporation; with the cold precision of an assassin, he planted evidence that the computers' normal operators would not see or know about until it was too late. Grinning grimly, Wonka exited the site, carefully sweeping his trail clean. No one would ever know he had been there. Now step three would come into play; the ever-so-slow process of waiting. But while he waited, Wonka could do other things. He rose from his chair and walked toward the infirmary.

_Pentagon, sublevel 13_

James Randall stared in disbelief at the messenger, one of the computer operatives who had delivered a message Randall had never hoped to hear.

"Are you sure?"

The operative nodded grimly. "There's no doubt about it, sir. At first I thought it was an error, since I have always believed our systems to be impenetrable, but four others checked it just to be sure, and they agreed; someone has hacked into the files."

"Did they sabotage anything?" Randall asked worriedly.

"No, thank God. Everything seems to be in place."

Randall began to pace, a habit he had developed only after coming to work for the government. "Would it be possible for you to trace the hacker?"

The other shrugged. "It is my belief that it would take a master hacker to crack our security. Anyone that good would be smart enough to cover or erase their tracks. But I could be wrong."

"Just try it. Please. Call off the surveillance attempts; divert all energy to tracing the perpetrator." Randall felt ashamed that he was practically begging, but the operative nodded. "We'll try, sir."

_Undersea Base_

He could bear watching no longer; he had stood outside the infirmary for nearly an hour, observing the little one as she toddled around, smiling and trying to follow the Loompas who walked just outside her playpen. She was adorable, he admitted, though he grudged the fact that even he, the stoic leader of the Oompa-loompas, was smitten by the innocence of this young one. And now, that fascination had grown, so much that he walked into the chamber, ignoring the curious looks of the Loompas around him. He walked up to the playpen, drawing the gaze of the little girl to himself. He met her gaze and they both smiled. "Dada?"

"Her first word!" an Loompa cried from somewhere in the chamber, and other Loompas began chattering excitedly. A bemused look found its way to Wonka's face, and he glanced behind him, his gaze pleading the Loompas for advice. They shrugged, less worried by Wonka than curious about his reaction to the child. The little girl had toddled to the edge of the playpen where Wonka was standing, and now looked directly up, her eyes begging for his attention. She had it. "What do you want?" he asked softly, though he thought she wouldn't understand. "Dada, up." she stretched her tiny arms upward, bouncing a little on her feet. Wonka couldn't resist. He bent down and picked her up, feeling awkward as she snuggled eagerly against his chest. She closed her eyes contentedly, sticking a thumb in her mouth.

"Fuhrer?" Wonka looked down, a Loompa gesturing to a bench resting against one wall. He walked carefully to it, then sat down as he cradled the child. She was asleep in his arms.

"Fuhrer?" another Loompa said, drawing close to Wonka. "Can we keep her?" He begged, "She _is_ cute, after all, and she thinks you are her father."

Charlie had no reply. He wasn't Melissa's father, he knew. And he had promised to return her to her real father after their negotiations, and his end, had become a reality._ But then again, if I destroy him as _my_ father requested, _she_ would be fatherless, and I would be able to take her as my own._ A crooked grin twisted his lips, seemingly mismatched with the warm, tender look in his eyes. Now, he realized, he would destroy JR Chadworth. He must.


	10. Chapter 10

**Disclaimer**: Same as prior chapters.

**A/N**: This story has many different characters. We apologize if it is confusing, but some people might like it that way. Intense. Please also notify us in the comments if the sections are too long. We will rectify that in future chapters.

Thanks to: the one person who commented in years.

_Lunar base_

The Oompa-loompa read the printout in his hand, smiling coldly as he read its contents. The Fuhrer had apparently done some hacking during his stay on earth, having gathered some intriguing information concerning America's secret space operation and its agents. Listed beneath this, almost as if it had been placed there nonchalantly, was the contact information for Shuckworth, along with a compilation of names and locations for his immediate family. There was a note beside this, orders from Wonka. "Do what you must to break the prisoner's will; he may be of use to us if he does." The Oompa-loompa chuckled darkly to himself.

"Certainly." He picked up the receiver for a telecommunicator. Before he could force anything on Shuckworth, however, he would need support from some Oompas on earth.

_Pentagon, sublevel 13_

"Sir, we have located the perpetrator." Though Randall had been waiting for these words since dawn, the exclamation made his heart heave in relief. "Who was it?"

The operative shook his head. "We're not sure for certain, sir, but we traced the activity back to a company."

"What sort of company? Communications? Weaponry? Espionage?"

The other looked slightly embarrassed, as if mentioning the criminal organization was preposterous. "Um… candy, actually, sir."

Randall raised an eyebrow in incredulity. "I thought you said only expert hackers could break into our system. I don't think any such people would work for a candy company."

The operative shifted uncomfortably. "It could be a mistake on our part, sir, or the culprit could have left a false trail."

"They can do that?"

The other nodded. "Yes, sir, but I don't know why anyone would go to such lengths to incriminate a confectionary corporation."

"Unless it wasn't a mistake." Randall's expression hardened. "I want you to send someone to investigate anyhow, just to be safe. In my experience, one can never be too careful."

"Yes, sir."

_England_

JR Chadworth sat alone in his spacious study, sitting behind a large oak desk, upon which rested a glass half-full of amber liquid, and the bottle from which the drink came. There was also a picture frame on the desk, protecting the image of the Chadworth family picture, of the young JR, his two little brothers, and their father and mother. They had been so happy together, he thought as he sipped at the glass. They were all smiling, as if they had no cares in the world. But that had been before their mother's death. She had died of leukemia when JR and his brothers were in their teens, leaving a hole of despair in their hearts. JR had asked his wife to name their daughter after his mother, as a way of honoring her though she had not been there for the majority of his life. Sarah had consented, naming their first child Melissa. But now, even the young Melissa had been taken from him, JR thought bitterly. Maybe the name was unlucky, or displeasing to fate. Whatever the case, he would not be able to rest until he had at least tried to find the devil who had taken her; Wonka. Though the letter had besought JR for negotiations, he could care less. As far as he was concerned, negotiations are irrelevant. Wonka, whom he had presumed dead for the past five years, had somehow come back, rising like a plague to inflict havoc on the name of Chadworth once more. But he couldn't take the desecration of his family sitting down; not anymore. Intoxicated by the brandy, and fueled by his anger, JR threw all former precautions to the wind. He moved the picture of his formerly happy family out of the way, exposing a button disguised as a wooden knobule. He pressed it firmly, causing a section of the desktop to slide open, exposing a black telephone. JR picked it up, held down the talk button for four seconds, then pressed one. A dial tone reached his ears, and he waited. His patience was rewarded by the sound of someone picking up on the other side.

"Hello, Seashore Grill, this is Robert Mitchell speaking."

JR grinned slightly, the code he had designed so long ago returning to his mind. "This is Jay Robin Chadworth; I would like to order your finest item."

"When will you be here to pick it up?"

"Expect me within twenty-four hours."

There was a smile in Robert's voice as he answered. "Very well, sir. It will be ready for you in when you arrive. Come by the restaurant; we shall be watching for you."

"Of course." JR hung up, feeling strangely happy. It may have been what he just did, by reactivating project Xavier through the phone call, or from the booze, but whatever the reason was; he felt oddly cheerful. He replaced the phone in its cradle, the console automatically withdrawing into the desk, becoming hidden once more. The sound of shuffling feet made him look up, and he was able to see his wife walking slowly past the door, her head hung in sadness. He got to his feet, a little unsteadily, but he forced himself to exit the room on two feet. He managed to reach his wife, a beautiful woman with brown hair and green eyes that usually held a mesmerizing twinkle, and embraced her. She returned the hug, feeling small and cold in JR's hold. "Sarah," he said suddenly, knowing that he had better tell her now instead of at the last minute, "I have to go on a little journey." She looked into his eyes, her own flashing with fear. "Where to? Why?" JR swallowed; he hated lying to her, but he had no choice. "A business trip, love. Just for a day or two, to settle some controversy within the company." She looked like she didn't believe him, but she nodded slowly, the dullness returning to her eyes. "Very well." She extricated herself from within his arms and slowly walked away, the image brining a lump to JR's throat. _But I have_ _no choice_, he reminded himself, as he began to stride toward the basement. _Some things are best kept hidden, even from those you love._

_Victoria, Texas, 19:00_

The sun was setting toward the west, a blazing ball of orange that cast its reddening rays over the neatly spaced houses of the suburban neighborhood. Children were being called inside for supper, the echoes of their laughter audible for a few moments until the doors of their respective homes were shut. Adults, too, retreated indoors, looking forward to relaxing after a long day's work. But these happy routines were neglected in one house, whose lawn was beginning to sprout weeds, its paint cracking from neglect. This was the home of the Shuckworth family, whose remaining residents had fallen into despair. As the sun slipped past the horizon, making the sky dark, Chelsea Shuckworth tucked her two sons into bed, kissing them goodnight before turning to leave. "Mommy?" one of them asked softly. She turned around. "Yes, Billy?"

"Is Daddy ever going to come back from Houston, or is he gone forever?" This question, asked by the six year old boy with such innocence, made Chelsea's eyes moisten. "I don't know, honey." The second boy stirred, peering over the side of the top bunk to look at his mother and brother. "I miss Daddy," he sighed, his sad expression identical to that of his brother's. Chelsea brushed away a tear. "I miss him too, Stephen. I miss him, too." She forced a smile as she tousled their hair. "But he'll be back soon, just wait and see."

_Meanwhile…_

The sun dropped past the horizon, bathing the neighborhood in shadow. The darkness was complete, except for the beams cast by several scattered street lights and the occasional lit window of a house whose occupants had seen no need to go to bed early. There were few sounds as well; chirping of insects and the low growl of a vehicle passing in the distance served as the ambiance for the vicinity. It was in this environment that four shadowy forms found themselves after having climbed out of a manhole. Replacing the cover, they ran quickly toward the closest house, seeking cover before someone accidentally spotted them. After gaining their bearings, they directed their attention to one house in particular- the Shuckworth residence. With more caution now, they slinked through the shadows that the multiple structures of the area offered; from house, to garage, to garbage can, they slowly made their way to the house of choice. There was a window that glowed with light from within, the kitchen window. The dark figures climbed the chainlink fence that separated them from the front lawn and the window, dropping down to the ground below. "Oof!" one let out a startled grunt as another landed on him. "Sorry, I didn't see you." The one who had been injured merely grunted in acceptance of apology before they all headed for the window.

Chelsea was in the kitchen, washing dishes after having put the children to bed. Her mind wandered, revisiting the time she had first met Shuckworth in college, he studying aeronautics and she studying biochemistry. Their meeting had been an accident; he was rushing to his next class as she walked down the hall, studying her notes. They hadn't seen each other coming, so they collided, both of them falling to the floor. Her notes had been scattered, and no one stopped to help her as she struggled to pick them all up before they got trampled. With tears running down her face, she collected them one by one, only to find that one was missing. Frustrated, she turned to see that he had picked it up and was holding it out to her, his eyes begging for forgiveness. That had been her first encounter with Mark Shuckworth; and now, years later, they were married and had twin boys, Mark was an astronaut, and she was a stay-at-home mom. But Mark had disappeared.

She didn't know the specifics of the mission he had been sent on, just that it would only have lasted a week, allowing him to return home for a few days. But after a week passed, there was no sign of him. The second, third, and even the fourth week went by; still no sign of him. She had called his work number, hoping that his employers would answer, but she only got the answering machine.

She had to be strong, she reflected. If NASA would not tell her what happened, she knew without a shadow of a doubt that nothing on earth could bring her husband back from whatever had taken him.

Allowing her thoughts to trail off, she stared at the water flowing out of the faucet, watching as it cascaded in little rivulets over her hands. A dull thump made her look up; it sounded like it had come from outside. Cautiously, she shut off the water and grabbed a knife from the rack by the sink, backing away from the window toward the counter.

_Lunar Base_

His body throbbed and ached where the tiny men, or Oompa-loompas, as they called themselves, had hit, smacked, and punched him. His face was a mess of bruises and bumps, one eye was swollen shut. Mark Shuckworth had thus far resisted the torturous routine that his captors put him through on a daily basis. _For how long now?_ He had lost track of the days; his whole time here seeming to be one long day of punishment that never ended, unless he was rendered unconscious by exhaustion or force. _And now,_ he thought as the door to his cell hissed open, _they were here to do it again._ But he would not talk; he had vowed to do that much for his family and country. He would resist, or die trying.

A tug on his shoulder made him turn his head, enabling him to see three Oompa-loompas standing over his prostrate body. "Get up." the familiar voice of the one called OS-22 ordered. Shuckworth answered with a weak groan. "He said GET UP!" another barked in a harsh tone, swiftly kicking Shuckworth in the abdomen. Shuckworth recoiled, his face twisting in pain. But slowly, he got to his feet, wobbling because of the pain in his legs. "Follow." Shuckworth nodded feebly, walking behind OS-22.

"Sit." The Oompa-loompa ordered, pointing to a leather chair placed before a large monitor. Shuckworth complied gladly, the muscles in his legs screaming for relief. When Shuckworth had settled himself in the chair, OS-22 nodded to an Oompa-loompa that Shuckworth had not noticed before; he was positioned before a large console toward the back of the room. When the commanding Oompa gave the signal, the technician pressed several buttons, making the screen before Shuckworth come to life. OS-22 stood beside the chair, gazing placidly at the screen. "Do you recognize this place?"

Shuckworth examined the image before him, drawing in a sharp breath when he realized what he was seeing. "My home…" He glanced at the Oompa-loompas, each of them wearing a smug grin. He returned his gaze to the screen and watched as the infiltrators, who were also Oompa-loompas, stalked toward the house. Shuckworth's house.

Shuckworth felt his face drain of blood. "What are they going to do?" OS-22 said nothing, only making a gesture toward the screen, motioning for him to continue watching. The camera bearer was edging nearer toward the kitchen window, allowing Shuckworth to see inside. His wife, Chelsea, was washing the dishes, her eyes lost in thought. _Probably thinking of me_. The very image of her brought a lump to his throat, and his eyes began to tear up. Abruptly, the picture changed, the camera holder having shifted to take in the image of an Oompa-loompa assembling his gun. His face was hard, his eyes cold; only then did Shuckworth realize what was going to take place. "No…" his objection caught in his throat, rendering him helpless to object as the Oompa-loompa unlocked the safety and held the gun up to his shoulder.

"No! You can't kill her!" Shuckworth found his voice, his cry making the Oompas around him turn to stare forebodingly in his direction. OS-22 smiled. "Submit to us, and you have a deal."

Tears running down his face, Shuckworth nodded. "Please, do whatever you want to me; just leave my family alone." The Oompa-loompa nodded, keying in a command to the forces on earth.

His finger tightened around the trigger, his glove creaking with the tension in his hand. "Wait!"

A hand on his shoulder made him lower the MP5 and reengage the safety. "What?"

"Command says to let her be; the hostage surrendered." The other smirked. "Doesn't take much to sway a human, does it?" the other Loompa shrugged. "I don't know. The Fuhrer isn't easily persuaded." The third, bearing the camera, grinned jokingly. "Who said Wonka was human?"

_English Coast_

Waves crashed against the shore in an everlasting battle between land and sea. Large boulders dotted the beachhead, the clusters of stone growing thicker as it neared the mouth of a rocky canyon. JR Chadworth took in the scene from within his Mercedes, his eyes brightening when he glimpsed a building near a canyon that sported a faded sign. Seashore Grill.

He drove his car down the hard-packed dirt road that bridged the distance between the parking lot of the little restaurant and the busy highway. Several vehicles were parked in the lot, their owners presumably having stopped to get a bite to eat. _But this restaurant is more than it seems…_

He parked his car and exited, pausing to engage the lock before heading for the entrance of the bar.

The door swung open, permitting him entrance and access to a mixture of scents; steaks, cigarette smoke, and beer were just a few of the aromas that registered in his mind before he even set foot in the establishment. When he stepped in, however, the smells became more powerful, and he made an effort not to make a face from the scents that were disagreeable. He walked up to the bar, ignoring the stares of some tough-looking men sitting on the barstools. He called for the barkeeper, who came at the first call. "Can I help you?"

"I'm Jay Robin, here to pick up my order. Robert Mitchell's a friend of mine." The barkeeper studied Chadworth for a moment, then smiled. "Of course. Come with me; he is waiting for you."

Some of the men at the bar gave Chadworth a strange look as he followed the barkeeper down a hall, then into a door marked EMPLOYEES ONLY. They walked down yet another hallway, turning right to enter a room. There was a single man in the room, seated at a desk. He looked up as the barkeeper and Chadworth entered. "Mr. Chadworth, it has been some time." he smiled as he said this, his teeth shining brightly in contrast with his dark skin.

"Robert. I trust that things have been well in my absence?" "Of course, sir." he turned to the barkeeper, who was standing awkwardly near the door. "You may go." He nodded and left, shaking his head. Robert Mitchell turned to Chadworth, who looked at him expectantly. "May I see it?" The other nodded as he rose from his seat, the chair groaning at the change in weight. "Come with me."

They walked down another corridor, dimly lit by hanging bulbs in the ceiling. They stopped when the hall ended, a door set into the wall that they faced. Mitchell produced a key, which he used to unlock a panel inset on the doorframe, exposing a row of buttons. He punched in a code, causing the door to hiss open. Mitchell shut the panel, moving forward to step into the chamber, which Chadworth recognized to be an elevator. When Chadworth stepped in, Mitchell pressed a button inside the elevator, which Chadworth assumed to be the DOWN button. The elevator began to travel deep into the earth, a full minute passing until it stopped. The door slid open, allowing Chadworth to see into a cavernous chamber. He gasped.

It wasn't as large or as lavish as the last fortress, but this one, entirely underground, was impressive nonetheless. It too was lit by massive floodlights set into the ceiling, but its facilities were carved into the walls of the cavern, allowing the center floorspace to be used as parking for the massive vehicles in the organization's possession. There were people everywhere, maintaining the conveyances, rushing in and out of passageways, and carting crates to and fro. Chadworth glanced at Mitchell. "What are those crates for?" the other smiled sheepishly. "Along with taking mercenary jobs as allowed by the guidelines for the Xavier project, we also run a smuggling operation. It is a profitable business, actually."

Chadworth snorted, but showed no other signs of objection. "Whatever works. What about technological advancement? At one time we had scientists working on creating cutting edge equipment."

"Oh, they're still here. But they have made little progress in the last five years. Though we are well funded, we lack in ingenuity."

Chadworth smirked, disgust clearly visible on his face. "Is there no way you can seek out this 'ingenuity'?" "Certainly, sir. We just need time.

"Time?" Chadworth's face grew red. "YOU'VE HAD TIME! FIVE YEARS' WORTH OF TIME! AND AFTER ALL THIS _TIME_ OU WASTED, MY GREATEST ENEMY HAS COME BACK TO HAUNT ME AND MY FAMILY!"

"Sir…"

"Don't 'sir' me," he growled, still breathing heavily in anger. "My daughter has been kidnapped. I need to find her. She could be anywhere."

Mitchell's face held a shocked expression, but Chadworth ignored it.

"Your daughter, sir?"

"Yes, Melissa, my only child. Sarah, my wife, has fallen into depression because of her disappearance , and I, too, am on the brink of a mental breakdown." He sighed deeply, his anger spent. Mitchell examined the other with calculating eyes, waiting for a moment's passing before he answered. "We will do what we can, Mr. Chadworth. The trail might be cold by now, but we will try."

The manor house appeared pristine and well-cared for, its lawns groomed and watered. At least, that's what Detective Smiley thought as he pulled into the cobblestone driveway, anticipating an interrogation. He got out of the car, his partner following closely behind. Smiley walked up the path toward the door, noting the style and structure of the house, Victorian and well-built. Undoubtedly the owner had paid good money for this dwelling, and was not afraid to use that wealth. _A wealth possibly acquired by hacking into government files_. They reached the door, and Smiley knocked. A man, presumably a butler by his choice of attire, answered the door at the second knock. "May I help you?" Smiley pulled his badge from his pocket, flashing it for the benefit of the butler. "Detective Jim Smiley. I'm here to question a Mr. JR Chadworth concerning the illegal infiltration of government files." The butler shook his head. "I'm sorry, Mr. Smiley; Mr. Chadworth left for a business trip yesterday."

"Did he specify when he would return?"

"No, sir."

Smiley grinned, as if the butler had given him the answer he was looking for.

"I'm sorry to have bothered you, sir. Maybe we will come back some other time." The butler dipped his head. "Good day."

Detective Smiley walked back to the car, Detective Dyson trotting at his side. "That's it, then? We come back later?" Smiley nodded grimly. "Though I find it strange… he left a day after the incident for which we are investigating. A day before we began the investigation. And he was vague in explaining the reason to his butler. What is it that Mr. Chadworth is trying to hide?"

_Lunar Base_

There was no time, no thought, no emotion. Just pain. Through the haze that blanketed Shuckworth's mind, he felt burning, stinging, aching. He could not move; cold steel held him fast to the table. He could not scream, for his mouth was taped shut. He could not taste or hear, smell nor touch; only feel the incessant pain that was channeled through his body like electricity. _Why was this happening?_ He could distantly remember someone, attempting to break his will by beating him several days in succession. _Fuhrer Wonka? No, the Fuhrer would not do that; Shuckworth was meant to obey the Fuhrer's every order, no matter the consequence. Then who was it that beat him? OS-22? No, that was his commanding officer, second to the Fuhrer._ Shuckworth could not remember the identity of his assailant, and so in resignation allowed himself to succumb to the pain.

"Mental reprogramming is complete, sir."

OS-22 grinned as he gazed from the platform above at the handiwork of the scientists beside him. "How much does he remember?"

"Everything, except that he was captured by our pilot, and that we are the ones who broke his determination. He believes that he works for us now, and will do whatever you or the Fuhrer asks of him."

"How long will it last?"

"What?"

"The programming."

The scientist shrugged. "Indefinitely. The electric shock theoretically has a permanent effect on the brain, but we also injected a heavy dose of Subservience Serum just to be safe."

"I thought that didn't work on humans."

"Only those who have not submitted themselves to its influence. I believe Shuckworth has omitted his resistance to the drug… he belongs to our side now." The scientist cackled evilly, reminding OS-22 of the laughter of a mad scientist.

_Maybe he is. _

OS-22's grin straightened, his tone becoming serious. "When he becomes conscious, return him to his quarters; he will be called for when he is needed."

"Yes, sir."

_Benfleet, England _

The field was cold and uninviting, gloomy and dim. Though the sky was clear, the sun's descent robbed the earth of brightness, leaving only the dull glow of twilight on the horizon. JR Chadworth stood near the middle of the vast, grassy expanse, alone except for the presence of thousands of headstones erected in memory of the deceased. He did not know specifically why he had come, but he had been drawn into the field by some irresistible desire, possibly to revisit some memories of the past before returning home. He stopped before the gravestones that marked the final resting places of his family members, or at least represented their resting places. Stephen, Melissa, Charles, Vincent... The family line of the Chadworths listed in stone. When he met his end, his name would complete the collection. And his daughter… he didn't know where she was, but she may as well have been dead. "It's hopeless!" he cried suddenly, as if appealing to the spirits of those who were laid in the earth before him. "My family is dead, my wife is depressed, my child is gone. Though I revived the family business, it will not be long until something comes along to destroy it and takes me with it!"

The soft sound of footfalls made him look up. A lone figure stood a few feet away, head bowed as if in prayer, examining the tombstones in front of him as he leaned against the oak tree to his side. He turned from it momentarily to glance at the tree, and slowly rubbed his hand across its rough bark, every movement displaying grief.

Chadworth's focus on himself was momentarily broken as he absently wondered who this despondent soul was and for whom he was mourning. Were the things he had suffered even worth comparing to the miseries of Chadworth? The stranger walked away, vanishing behind the tree. JR took the opportunity to walk up to the headstone by the tree, if only to satisfy his curiosity. He turned to look at the words inscribed on the stones. _William Wonka, 1935-1996_. _Wilbur Wonka, 1906-1969. _JR drew in a quick breath in disbelief. "Wonka?"

At the sound of Chadworth's confused voice, the stranger returned, his head now raised for JR to see.

"It… can't be…"

"Oh but it can," Wonka said treacherously, wearing a complacent grin that made JR feel all the more disturbed.

"How did you survive the nuke?" JR asked, both angered and curious at once.

Wonka's grin widened. "Well that's the secret, isn't it, old friend. And a good magician never reveals his secrets."

JR's face hardened. "Friend?" he said coldly, his eyes boring into Wonka's own. "Does a friend murder his friend's father and brothers? Does a friend kidnap his friend's daughter? My life has been full of misery because of you. When you disappeared, it started to get better. But you had the gall to come back and ruin everything!" His gaze became furious, and he reached to withdraw the sidearm that he had made a habit to carry around with him, but Wonka was one step ahead, already having drawn his own. He smiled mockingly at Chadworth, whose eyes now held a flicker of fear.

"Go ahead- kill me," JR spat angrily, "I don't have any reason to live anyway." If this answer surprised Wonka, he showed no sign of it; he kept the gun trained on Chadworth, his eyes growing cold.

"No, I don't think I will… you have much more to suffer yet." Flashing him a devious grin, Wonka turned and disappeared the way he had come; before Chadworth could even react, Wonka was gone.

_What did he mean 'you have much more to suffer?' my whole family has been destroyed, leaving me to endure Wonka's shenanigans alone. What more can I possibly suffer? _

After a week at home, however, Chadworth began to forget the ominous promise that Wonka had made, though he had in no way forgotten Wonka himself. Now that he thought about it, his nemesis had looked younger, though in the dimness of the graveyard it had been difficult to tell. Chadworth had a brief thought. Maybe the persecutor had taken to making deals with demons in order to be restored to youth, or that maybe he had developed some sort of de-aging potion or something. _Though the man was crazy, nothing was beyond him_, Chadworth grudgingly admitted. _But he is in no way the friend I once had. _

The ringing of the doorbell made him sit up suddenly. He listened as Marcus opened the door, allowing someone to come in. Chadworth thought about going out of his study to greet whoever it was, but thought better of it and waited for Marcus to summon him. Within moments however, the butler came to the open doorway, rapping on the doorframe to get Chadworth's attention. "Sir, there are two men here to see you; Detectives Smiley and Dyson." Bile rose in JR's throat, and he swallowed, imagining that he tasted the foulness of fear. He forced a calm nod. "Send them in."

"Yes, sir." Marcus disappeared, reappearing with two men behind him. Detective Smiley, the taller of the two investigators, was in no way as cheerful as his name suggested; he wore a slight frown as he entered the room and looked upon JR's near drunken countenance. Detective Dyson followed, a short, stout man who wore a pensive, yet cheerful expression despite the seriousness of his job. He, too, took in the scene, not disturbed in the least at JR's disheveled appearance. Chadworth looked up dully at his visitors, making an effort not to reach for his glass of brandy on his desk. "Hello, sirs," he said, trying not to slur, "How can I help you?" Smiley took a seat on a wooden chair set before the desk. "We have a few questions for you, sir, concerning a breach in national security." JR's expression did not change, so he continued. "Approximately three weeks ago, a government agency discovered that their system had been broken into, much to the disdain of its operators." He paused to evaluate JR's facial expression; it still did not change. "So what does this have to do with me?" Chadworth asked gruffly, feeling that this interrogation was a waste of time.

"The programmers ran a systems analysis, in a last-ditch attempt to locate the perpetrator. They found his trail, and followed it… to your corporation, ultimately to you." JR waved his hand dismissively. "I can tell you that it wasn't me; I don't know anything about computer programming or the like." Smiley didn't know whether to believe him, since expression and intonation were everything. Chadworth's attitude had revealed nothing concerning guilt or incrimination, but the data had said that the infiltrator had come through Chadworth's system. He sighed, slightly frustrated, but maintained his nerve. He allowed his eyes to wander over the curiosities of the room; an ancient bookcase filled with equally ancient books, an old shotgun mounted on the wall, a dusty computer set atop a desk in the corner, a TV set into the wall. His gaze returned to the desk before him, coming to rest on a picture, obviously well maintained as it was lacking the layer of dust that seemed to be ever present in this one room. He reached for it, seeing Chadworth stiffen out of the corner of his eye. He turned to look at him. "May I?" JR nodded slowly, looking uncomfortable for the first time. Smiley picked up the pictureframe, brining it closer to him in order to examine the faces in the image. A man, a woman, three boys, standing together happily as the picture was being taken. He gave a slight twitch of the lips, which could have been a smile, though it was difficult to be sure. He replaced the pictureframe over the wooden knobule that might have served as a marker. "Well, Mr. Chadworth," Smiley said as he rose from his seat, "Thank you for taking the time to answer our questions." Dyson nodded but said nothing as he rose from his seat as well. Chadworth remained sitting "Of course. Please forgive me for not seeing you to the door, but I…"

"Mr. Chadworth is having some emotional and physical difficulties right now, as he is dealing with the loss of his daughter." Marcus interrupted as he ushered the two men out of the study.

"I'm sorry to hear that," Smiley muttered, the look of pity in his eyes genuine.

"I'll cope." Chadworth answered huskily, turning to look as the men exited the door and disappeared from sight.

"We may have more questions for Mr. Chadworth," Dyson remarked to the butler before they left the atrium. "Would it be all right if we came back some other time?" Smiley thought he saw a flash of irritation in the butler's eyes, but he said, "Certainly. Mr. Chadworth, if he is available, will see that your questions are answered."

"Thank you."

Marcus closed the door behind the two detectives, peering through the peephole to verify that they truly were leaving. He had never trusted any kind of law enforcement; having been born and raised in a Communist country, he learned that government authority should not be respected, because it would ultimately lead to the enslavement of the common people. He sniffed contemptuously as he turned from the door to walk back to the study. The detectives might come back, and Mr. Chadworth needed to be told. The existence of his corporation, and this 'Xavier Project', could be at stake.

_One day later…_

The Mercedes cruised steadily down the road, trees on each side seeming to form a living tunnel. Chadworth, behind the wheel, rhythmically drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, his gaze staring ahead. He had been to town, some twenty miles away, just to get out of the house and hopefully get his mind off his troubles. But no matter what he did, his thoughts would return to his corporation, his military expeditions, and his nemesis. His mind was so full of worry, that not even drink seemed to help. He had hoped that a scenic drive would alleviate the apprehension that constantly ate away at his mind; all to no avail. So, with a heavy heart and distracted mind, he decided to return to his home after having spent three hours away from it.

He drove steadily, watching as he passed the countless trees and drumming an unparticular beat on the wheel. Gradually the trees gave way to the edge of a grassy plain the; last stretch before reaching the gate to his home. His eyes still ahead, he looked into the distance toward his house, which lay sparkling in the midday sun. But he was distracted by the flash of blue and red; his fingers stopping in mid-drum, and he imagined that his heart had ceased beating as well. He pressed harder on the gas pedal, more eager than ever to get home. He cursed himself for having left in the first place; he should have walked the grounds to clear his mind instead. The gate was wide open, so he only eased off the pedal and allowed the momentum of the vehicle to take him past the fence and up the driveway. He slammed on the brakes, his mouth opening in disbelief. An ambulance was parked in the driveway, its back doors open, permitting entrance for three EMTs who guided a gurney out of the house and into the back of the vehicle. There was no mistaking the face of the victim. JR let out an involuntary cry of horror before leaping out of his car and running to where she lay. "Sarah!" he reached the ambulance just as the doors shut. "What happened?!" he cried helplessly as he watched the vehicle drive away into the distance, sirens screaming. "Suicide." An unfamiliar voice answered, and Chadworth turned to face the speaker. A policeman looked at him sympathetically, his eyes friendly, yet sad.

"Is she…" he couldn't bring himself to say the word. But the officer understood him and lowered his head. "I'm afraid so, sir. I'm terribly sorry." A lump rose in Chadworth's throat, and his breaths came in ragged gasps. "Why?" was the only word he could manage to choke out. The officer responded by holding out an envelope to him, JR's name penned neatly on the back. He opened it in the officer's presence, his heart beating painfully in his chest as he began to read.

**_My dearest JR, _**

**_I know that you may never forgive me for what I am about to do, but the pain, the sorrow, the agony is too much for me to bear. The disappearance of our child, threats from your rivals, and you falling slowly into drunkenness has broken my heart beyond repair. I was, and still am, depressed beyond measure. Rest didn't help, eating didn't help, and drugs didn't help. I had hoped that your presence would be the thing that repaired the brokenness of my heart, but you have begun to draw apart from me, never there when I needed you most. Don't deny it; ever since Melissa's kidnapping, your mind has been elsewhere. Though I sought your attention, you had to 'go on a business trip', or get a drink to soothe your tortured mind. Despite the horror that will be wrought through my action, I still love you JR; I always have. Maybe my departure from this world will be the thing that frees you from bondage, the call that will pull you away from the temptation of alcohol so that you can be the strong businessman I have known you to be. It is what you were born for; I see that now. So now, go; devote yourself to your first love: your corporation. _**

**_Sarah _**

JR Chadworth folded the letter and placed it back in the envelope, stuffing it into his pocket. Tears were now running freely down his cheeks; he removed his glasses in order to wipe his eyes with one sleeve. The officer had quietly walked away while JR read the letter, his place being taken by Marcus, who had stepped outside to conduct Chadworth back to the house. JR looked to him as they walked back to the house, his eyes remorseful.

"Sir…"

"How did it happen?" JR asked quietly.

The butler groped for words. "She… was in the bathroom. We assumed she was doing her makeup, or some other feminine grooming routine. It wasn't until we heard a thump that Tanya, the maid, decided to knock. There was no answer, so she turned the knob. It was locked. She began to shout and pound on the door, which brought everyone running. And when we broke down the door…" His eyes held a look of terror, as if he were seeing the horrific sight all over again. "She was on the floor, bleeding from her wrists." His voice became pinched as his throat tightened. "The blood was everywhere… we called the hospital, and they said they would come immediately. The nearest one is fifteen miles away, and all their helicopters were having technical problems and could not be used. We tried to slow the bleeding by applying basic first aid, but the cuts were too deep…" Here his recounting ended, his head hung low in regret. JR shook his head, a wave of disgust and sorrow threatening to drown him. "It's not your fault, Marcus. It's mine." He swallowed. "I should have been there for her; I should have put her before the business." His eyes became misty. For a moment, they were silent, Marcus patting JR on the shoulder in an attempt to comfort him. The silence was broken as Marcus spoke once more, describing the brief investigation that occurred as the EMTs tended to Mrs. Chadworth. "It was a short, speedy affair, really. It seemed wrong that they did not take much more time to look. But they said that it was clear that it had been a suicide, since the presence of the bloody knife, medication, and suicide note confirmed it. There were no fingerprints, other than hers and yours, no footprints, nothing out of place. Of course the pool of blo… crimson would have made it difficult to tell, even for the most experienced of detectives." He paused, a curious look coming to his face. "Do you have a fondness for gummy bears, sir?" JR shot him an incredulous look, as if irritated that he had the nerve to ask such an irrelevant question. "Why do you ask?" Marcus shrugged sheepishly, as if ashamed to have to bring up the subject. "The detective asked if you had a preference for them because he had found, of all things, a gummy bear in the bathroom, resting on the floor. I told him I assumed you did, since you own a candy business…" Marcus looked up at Chadworth, whose face had paled. "Sir?" JR turned toward him, his former look of depression having changed to a look of utter fury. He drew himself up, fueled by his anger. _Wonka had done this; he must have_. He was like a restless hellhound that was intent on destroying JR's hopes, dreams, and life. But JR would not, could not, take this one sitting down. Wonka had taken his family, his sanity, and soon he would take his home and corporation in an effort to kill him. But JR would not be there for him to destroy.

"Marcus, I must leave again." Marcus looked confused for a few moments. "But… you just got back. And your wife… doesn't this mean anything to you?" JR nodded grimly. "Of course it means something to me. It means everything. It means that someone is out there to destroy me… and I must be prepared." Marcus looked at his employer, wondering if the mistress's death had not pushed him over the brink of insanity. "I will be gone for an indefinite period of time." Marcus nodded halfheartedly. "We shall remain." JR flashed him a look as he got up to depart to his vehicle again. "If someone comes to the estate for unfriendly reasons, you know what to do." For a brief moment, a flash of anticipation appeared in the butler's eyes. "Yes, sir. Have a safe journey." The butler smiled darkly to himself as the door closed behind his master. There was much preparation to which he must attend, beginning with inspection of the tunnels…

_Undersea Base_

Charlie Wonka had returned to the undersea base after his brief surface venture. Thought he would never cease to be amazed by the wonderful things that grew and lived on Earth, he was nonetheless relieved to be out of sight from the prying eyes of the world. Retreating to his office, he seated himself behind the large metal desk, reclining in a velvet-lined chair. His eyes wandered round the room, examining the various artifacts that his predecessor had gathered and placed here in remembrance of past events: framed newspaper clippings that described the accomplishments that Wonka had made when he was open to the public, pictures of people that he assumed to be friends or family though he only dimly recognized them, various candy-coated weapons that had been mounted on the wall by means of hooks. Many of these articles appeared to be regular tools of destruction, except for a giant lollipop that possessed a rather alarming razor-edge that glinted in the light of the overhead lamps.

_Interesting_. Charlie made a mental note to search the archives for all candy weaponry when he had a free moment, then stood, the purple coat he had inherited from Willy Wonka rustling as he rose from his chair. The Command Room was calling.

He walked down the hall, his loafers clicking smartly against the hard floor with every step. He glanced to the side while he made his journey, catching a brief glimpse or two through the thick portholes that were evenly placed in the wall. These windows gave the observer a view outside the base, a look into the depths of the eternally dark ocean. Sometimes the occasional lanturnfish was perceptible through the glass, its blinking antenna visible for a short moment until it passed, or perhaps the glow of a luminescent jellyfish that was blown along by the deep-sea currents. The halls themselves were brightly lit, though the light wasn't able to escape the interior because the portholes were polarized, only allowing light to enter the panels. Why these windows were here, Charlie didn't know for certain. There was nothing to see out there, and visibility meant nothing if there were sonar and scanners present, which there were. They may have been there solely for observational purposes, studies of the glowing sea creatures that inhabited these depths. Wonka shrugged unconcernedly as he continued down the hall. There were many strange things in this base that he had been forced to familiarize himself with; running water, seafood, countless chambers that were vacant or inactive. He had once come upon something that he had assumed to be the Chocolate room, as its dimensions had been the same as the one in the Lunar Base. But the riverbed was empty of melted chocolate; the cocoa soil was barren of growth save for the occasional shrub that had managed to survive without assistance. The sight had made Wonka sad, but it was for this reason that the Lunar Base needed to continue transporting candies to Earth, since the Undersea Base was unable to produce any of its own. After viewing the desolate chamber, Charlie Wonka had asked why all the candymaking rooms were inactive.

"You see, my Fuhrer," the Head Oompa said while leading Wonka deeper into the base, "We went into lockdown when we heard that the Antarctic Base was under attack. I trust you have read the report?" Wonka nodded.

"Because of lockdown, all candymaking instruments were shut off, in order to save energy, resources, and manpower until the threat was over. But, as you know, shortly after the assault, the inhabitants of the base were forced to eject into space, leaving us to remain. We here undersea didn't know that the Fuhrer and others had left Earth; since communications with them were abruptly cut off after a storm took out the main transmitter for the base. We thought they had all been killed by Chadworth's forces, a notion that made us all very bitter." His eyes clouded as he thought back to the moment. "We reactivated the base for survivability purposes; of course, though we did not restore the candy machines to functionality. From then on, we focused our existence on getting revenge… and we did." He looked to Wonka as a smug grin formed on his face. The other raised a brow in inquiry. The Oompa continued, stopping his walk as he looked briefly out a porthole. "We sent three squads in a submarine to the surface, to Antarctica. They were supposed to take out the force that we thought had killed the Fuhrer, but they reported that the entire complex was bare of life, seeming to have suffered an internal flood, undoubtedly killing the perpetrators in the process. The teams returned to the shore, where they found the enemy's three transports, trapped in ice, which they were told to board and commandeer."

"Did they?"

"Of course; they destroyed the crew, throwing the bodies into the sea. They then began to familiarize themselves with the ships' systems, gaining experience that they were able to use in a battle that ensued shortly after the Antarctic base was nuked. It was our three ships against the aircraft carrier that had brought the aircraft that had bombed the base. One of the three was destroyed, but two survived the skirmish and now cruise about the world, delivering your candies and supplying a good landing place for your spacecraft."

"And it's a good thing, too," Wonka said, smiling cheerfully.

His thoughts returned to the present as he crossed the threshold of the Command Room. He looked around in wonder; it was so much like the one in the Lunar Base, except this one had sonar instead of the light ray scanners that was required to detect things in the ether. The thought brought a pang of homesickness to Wonka's stomach, but he pushed it away. _This _is_ my home._ He focused on the Oompa-loompas who worked busily at their stations. One noticed Wonka, and hurried over to meet him. Wonka grinned. "You called?"

"Yes, my Fuhrer; we need your discretion concerning report we have received from the patrols." Wonka's grin vanished, replaced with a concerned expression. "What is it?" The Oompa looked down at a clipboard in his hand, and read from a sheet. "They say that there has been suspicious activity going on in sector three; an unmarked submarine has been seen passing on a regular basis, often changing its course in order to circle the area. The mariners say it is as if the sub's crew is looking for something." Wonka frowned. "Are they sure the vessel is unmarked?" "Yes, sir." Wonka's frown deepened. "I would say that it is probably a government owned vehicle, looking for suspicious activity. But then again, it could be an adversary who has gotten smarter." "So what should we do?" Wonka thought for a moment, then spoke, smiling grimly. "Make sure the base is well protected. Have all the submersibles out on patrol; I want nothing to get past them. And call the Lunar Base; we may need their assistance before the new moon comes."

_England, Seashore Grill_

"The new vehicles are working very well, if I may say so myself. And the crew that came with them is highly experienced, too." Robert Mitchell was speaking to JR Chadworth in a room beneath the restaurant, the thumping of footsteps and loud music barely audible through the wood and concrete that separated the bar and grill from the covert operations below. Chadworth scowled.

"Experience means nothing if there are no results. And I expect these results soon, Robert." Mitchell appeared to wince, but he recovered quickly. "I'm sure we will get an outcome within a week, sir. At the moment, we possess only one of each kind of vehicle; it will be nearly unfeasible to search through the Earth's entire area at the rate that you are asking. We have a bird in the air, a submersible in the sea, and troops on land. Anything more is humanly impossible." He stopped when he noticed Chadworth's steely glare.

"And who said I was human?" he growled menacingly. Mitchell's face lightened a shade as he briefly remembered the tales he had heard of Chadworth's rage issues, but he set his jaw in determination.

"No one, sir. But the people who work for you are." Chadworth stewed for a few more seconds, then appeared to relax, his red face returning to its normal shade. He sighed.

"You're right, Robert. One cannot be pressed any further than his limitations will allow." He looked down at his hand, his eyes drawn to the wedding ring that still seemed to hold fast to his finger. He choked back a groan of sadness, then rose from where he had been sitting. "I think I should be…" His sentence was interrupted by the shrill ringing of the telephone on Mitchell's desk. Robert picked it up. "Hello, Seashore Grill…"

The regular mantra that he usually gave was disrupted by a loud exclamation from the other end. Chadworth couldn't decipher the meaning of what the other said, but Mitchell could; his face whitening. He hung up, turning to Chadworth. "That was Marcus. He said that your home is… gone."

_It had all happened so quickly_, Marcus the butler, now turned fugitive, thought as he and the surviving Chadworth staff sought refuge in the series of tunnels that riddled the grounds beneath the Chadworth estate. One moment, he had been walking along the corridors, seeing that everything was cared for in Mr. Chadworth's absence, strutting along with butlerly elegance. But his normal routine was cut short when he saw the dark, unfamiliar vehicle coasting along the entry road. After spending a few seconds watching it approach, he pulled out a radio from his vest pocket, a device he had seldom been forced to use. He keyed in to the security staff. "Falconer, we have a conspicuous vehicle approaching on the access road… would you please go out and meet them? I want to be sure they mean harm before doing anything drastic."

"It is done, sir." Marcus slipped the device back into his pocket, watching in silence as a black car with the Chadworth insignia on it pulled on to the road from behind a barrier, a wall that hid the security compound from the rest of the estate. The sudden appearance of the vehicle made the intruder stop, his brakes squealing as the van came to a halt. Marcus still watched through the second story window as Falconer exited his car, one of his comrades who came to stand beside him. They waited until the other party stepped out of their vehicle, two men as well. The strangers came over to Falconer and appeared to be explaining something when Falconer's face screwed up in pain, a stain of scarlet growing on his chest. In panic, his partner keyed in his radio, calling for backup before he too was killed by the mysterious men. Alarmed, Marcus ran for the stairs, making a beeline for the emergency switch that was hidden behind the family portrait of the Chadworths. Engaging the switch, he felt some small relief as the house began lockdown. A high-pitched siren began to wail, and the lights went off, everything becoming dark until the dim backup lights came on. There were a few screams from the younger maidservants as they realized that something terrible was happening; but they all knew what to do in a situation like this. All the staff had been trained for a moment like this; they were supposed to head to the basement, where Butler Marcus would give them their orders.

_Meanwhile…_

Agents Ryan and Dmitri stared coldly at the two bodies at their feet. Their thoughts were as emotionless as their faces. What was the use of emotion if it only made one weak? Their reasons for being here were not their own. They were here on the account of one man: JR Chadworth. It was their mission to apprehend him, or die trying. Detectives Smiley and Dyson had "interrogated" the man, but the standard police force knew nothing about true interrogation, not like the federal government did. If they had, they may have had the sense to disregard what the suspect had told them about not knowing anything concerning computers, and checked Mr. Chadworth's past and public records. Then they would have discovered that JR Chadworth did indeed know about computer programming and codes, as he had taken classes on it in college, and had even finished at the top of the class. They also would have discovered that Chadworth was involved with a group of unsavory mercenaries, acting as their proprietor and sponsor though he did not regulate the organization's activities. Chadworth had also been condemned of breaking international law, though he pled insanity, for which the court had been happy to grant him. He was known to have difficulties with anger management, and had been spotted on multiple occasions at the local bars in an intoxicated state. Mr. Chadworth was a black soul for sure; Dmitri and Ryan knew and trusted this notion as much as they trusted the M9s they each carried at their sides. As they returned to their vehicle, they exchanged a solemn glance. Mr. Chadworth would be apprehended and brought in for questioning at all costs.

With all the staff members accounted for in the subterranean chamber, Marcus called the group to attention, giving them directions for navigating the series of tunnels that would lead to safety. "Just stay together, and you will be fine." "It's so dark! How will we see?" one asked, worry in his voice. In response, Marcus pressed a button on the wall behind him. With a buzz of electricity, overhead lights flickered to life, lighting the hall before them as far as the eye could see. "Oh." "Any other questions?" No one had any, so the group of two hundred plus people began their journey through the tunnels. Marcus, chuckling darkly to himself, pressed a button that was hidden beneath his coat.

With the successful termination of the remaining security detail, the two operatives continued down the road, eyes wary for anymore danger. Seeing none, they edged up the driveway, parking neatly. Agent Ryan told Dmitri to stay behind in case the suspect had gone out earlier, and unwittingly returned home. So, as the other walked up the pebbled walkway, Dmitri watched with a slight feeling of scorn. As a full-blooded Russian, he had many times felt snubbed by the native-born Americans, mostly because of their stereotypical attitudes toward him and his people. At a first glance, most Americans would dismiss all Slavic people as Communists and citizens of ill intent. But in reality, his nation had some of the most welcoming, kind-hearted people within it, whose goodness was often overlooked by the media who sought to feed the American hunger for prejudice. It had taken Dmitri countless years to prove his worthiness to everyone around him, to his neighbors, to the government, even to Ryan, whom he had considered his greatest friend for nearly five years. But from time to time, during an important case, Dmitri would be told to stand down and let someone else handle the situation, oftentimes an agent who was younger and more inexperienced than he. And now was one of those times, he reflected with some bitterness. Agent Ryan had been a federal agent for fewer years than Dmitri had; in fact, most of what Ryan knew had been taught to him by Dmitri. _The boy had grown cocky_, he thought, watching as Ryan knocked on the colossal front door. _It would only be a matter of time before_…

The explosion was so sudden, so massive, that Dmitri had no time to react. The house abruptly burst into flames, every window and door shattering in unison, the multiple crashing adding to the cacophony of noise. Agent Ryan, who had been less than a foot away from the door, was blown down, his head hitting the ground with a sickening thud. The fire from the explosion was burning so quickly, that Ryan's body was soon buried by flaming rubble. And as Dmitri watched this from the vehicle in shock, the part of the structure nearest him collapsed, one wall of burning material breaking away from the house, landing squarely on the van. The vehicle shook with the impact, making Dmitri's head slam into the dashboard. The last thing he saw before his eyes drew closed was the rubble all around the van, burning, burning.

After a walk through identical corridors that seemed to go on for miles, the tunnel had opened up into a massive chamber, its ceiling well above the people's heads. Here, the hundreds of people were able to spread out, sitting in groups to talk about what had happened back at the Chadworth estate. They were afraid, Marcus knew as he scanned their faces. But they were brave, and would make it through this difficulty. They had all known that working for Chadworth would be a dangerous choice of work; they had all read and signed the contract. What they did not know, however, was the reason for which there was an increased amount of danger. _But they soon will, _he thought grimly. _After this journey's end, some of them may wish they had never signed the contract at all._

His world had gone from black, to flashes of light and confused senses, to black again. He knew he was hurt and in pain, but for his training, his mind wasn't willing to acknowledge the fact by screaming or calling for help. He wasn't sure he could even if he wanted to, but that did nothing to quell his determination to gut out the throbbing and aching he was feeling. He was surprised though, at how quickly that resolve was broken after a new, sharp pain stabbed through his wrist. His eyes snapped open, allowing him to see his surroundings. Bright lights made him jerk them shut, but he opened them slightly in curiosity. A hospital, he realized. He was in a clean, cool, organized hospital, not the burning, smoldering wreckage that he had last shut his eyes upon. And now, he saw, a nurse had applied an IV to his wrist. She had heard his groan of pain, however, and was now staring hopefully at him. Dmitri opened his eyes more in order to look at her properly. "Good morning, Mr. Vladmirvich. I'm glad to see that you pulled through. The burns you sustained were not in the least mild." Dmitri groaned again, feeling the stinging of deep burns on his body for the first time. The nurse laughed prettily, and Dmitri looked up at her, his pain momentarily forgotten. In the glare of the fluorescents, she looked like an angel… or he was just hallucinating from medication or pain. He pushed the thought away from his mind. The nurse had stopped laughing, though she continued to smile down at the patient in a motherly way. "Thirsty?" Dmitri nodded, the movement sending waves of fire coursing down his neck and back. The woman held a Dixie cup up to his lips, and he drank thirstily, the cool water running down his throat like an icy river. The cup had only been half full when she had offered it to him, but it was enough to quench his thirst. He nodded to her gratefully, this time successfully ignoring the pain wrought by the action. But a sudden thought made him start. "Did Ryan Steele make it?" The nurse cocked her head. "Who?" "My partner, Ryan…" "I'm sorry, Mr. Vladmirvich, but you were the only patient brought to us last night." Hearing this, Dmitri's shoulders slumped, his head hanging remorsefully. His partner and friend was dead, his most trusted comrade. Now he was truly alone, for the agency would surely disown him after he had failed to bring back Mr. Chadworth as they had requested, as well as having allowed his junior partner to get killed.

The nurse had gone out of the room to allow Dmitri some grieving space, but she returned moments after, leading the way for two black-suited men.

One nodded to the nurse. "You may leave."

"But-"

"We will call for you if there is any drastic change in his condition." The nurse looked ready to argue, but she bit her lip and nodded, leaving without another word. The men turned toward Dmitri and removed their dark glasses. He recognized them instantly.

"Mr. Riedenger, Mr. Krueger," he gasped, his mouth suddenly dry." The men grimly smiled down at him.

"Are you thirsty, Vladmirvich?" Krueger said while filling the cup with water from the pitcher. Dmitri swallowed, his throat seeming to grate with the action.

"No, sir." The man set the cup back on the table.

"Do you realize, Mr. Vladmirvich, that you have failed? The Chadworth estate is destroyed, and your partner is dead." Dmitri flinched at the reproach, but he nodded dismally in response. "Yes, I realize it." Riedenger glared, as if struck with disbelief that Dmitri had the nerve to answer audibly. "Do you also realize," Krueger continued, his voice harsh, "that the explosion was not your fault?"

"I…" Dmitri flashed his superiors a surprised look. "It wasn't?" the two exchanged a glance before Krueger answered.

"Investigations revealed that there had been napalm and nitroglycerin present at the site after the explosion occurred; the substance was spread by air currents, but the sources were found to be planted throughout the grounds, placed around and in the foundations of the structures in proportionate amounts." Dmitri looked at them with wide eyes. "That would only mean…" "That someone would have had to trigger the explosion through remote, or would have set it to self destruct." Riedenger finished, meeting Dmitri's stare.

"So that means that Chadworth is out there, haunting us still. But do you think he is capable of procuring such advanced and dangerous technology?"

the others nodded in unison. "The thing about Mr. Chadworth, is that nothing should be put past him. He and his family have a remarkable record for doing the impossible, or near it, anyway. If I were superstitious, I would say that the Fates were with them." Dmitri continued to stare, the statement lost on him. "So what am I supposed to do? Stay here in the hospital while Chadworth remains a threat out there?" "No," Krueger said sternly, "you will be transported to our own medical facility, where you will have the best of care, and will recuperate more quickly. I will send more agents to seek out Mr. Chadworth, but we want you to confront and apprehend him, because you are the most able of them all." Dmitri was surprised to finally be recognized by these men, something that he had strived for so long. But now, the praise felt empty, as insatiable as the loneliness that was beginning to creep into his heart. He nodded dismally. "Yes, sir. Thank you."

The host of servants and other house workers had settled, some resting quietly, some whispering to each other, some even sleeping soundly. But for Marcus, there was no rest. He could not rest until… the sound of an engine echoed through the chamber, as if the sound came from far away. And it did, Marcus knew. It was the sound of assistance coming from the tunnels miles away. Those who were not sleeping looked about nervously, their eyes shifting about the chamber. But it would be a while yet before anyone else came into this cave. Marcus sat and waited.

He hadn't realized that he had dozed off until the loud roaring of engines broke him from his sleep. His eyes jerked open, and he noted with joy that they had come as promised: transports that would take these people the rest of the way to the base. Numerous trucks pulled into view, parking wherever possible. A dark-skinned man stepped out from one of the vehicles, and Marcus walked up to him. "I presume you are Mr. Mitchell." The other smiled, his teeth flashing white in the dimness. "Yes, and I assume you are Marcus the butler?"

Marcus smiled, laughing. "To these people, I am merely a butler, a servant. But I am also Mr. Chadworth's advisor and foreign diplomat, his comrade and assistant." Mitchell's smile straightened, and Marcus turned away from him. "Thank you for coming, Robert. These people need the transportation, as they do not yet have the stamina require in the battlefield." Mitchell snorted. "These people? They could never become soldiers, not even with the training we have to offer." Marcus spoke without turning. "You would be surprised what people can be driven to do, Robert. In my country, young boys were forced to give up play and love for war and pestilence. Those who would not were beaten and killed. If you find the right motivator, you will find that people can be made to do almost anything." Marcus' tone chilled Mitchell, who began to fidget uncomfortably. "I'll… get the people into the trucks. Then we can get moving." Marcus turned, a cold smile on his face. "Thank you, Mr. Mitchell."

_England, Underground_

The trucks had travelled steadily for half an hour, having left the lighted tunnels and were now driving through unlit passageways with the aid of their headlights. As they drove, Mitchell explained the purpose of these corridors.

"Years ago, when the Chadworth family began their business in weaponry and warfare, they decided that they would need a means of transporting goods to their estate for safekeeping, and a way for escape if the time for such ever came. So they began to dig, and what d'ya know, they found a series of underground caverns stretching for miles in every direction. In the end, they utilized the tunnels for their own usage, and used them as a connector from their home to their base near the shore, and later to the citadel on Holy Island… or so the story goes." He paused, glancing at Marcus. "Of course, that was years ago, before I even joined the organization. Now, we use the tunnels mostly for smuggling goods across the country; drugs, weapons, explosives, alcohol, you name it. We could probably run on our own without the aid of Chadworth, but most of our men are loyal to him, and he supplied us with a complex in the first place. Besides, it would feel like irreverence to break a tradition that our group has been founded upon."

Marcus said nothing, only staring ahead. Mitchell became silent as well, remaining quiet for the duration of the journey.


	11. Chapter 11

**Disclaimer**: same as previously stated. (is this necessary anymore?)

**A/N **Last part of this section. We're trying to keep each volume at ten chapters, but this little bit is kind of an epilogue to this segment.

_Pacific Ocean 142' 12"_

The silence was heavy, as thick as the darkness that seemed to emanate from the yawning chasm that stretched for miles across the ocean floor. The water at this level was frigid and clouded by swaths of silt and ash that were blown about by the massive undersea currents. It was here that a form appeared, a long, cylindrical figure gliding through the darkness, appearing to be a wraith from the deep; a submarine that bore the Chadworth symbol on its underside. The 120 meter long vessel cruised through the dimness like a shark on the hunt, searching for any anomalies.

"Captain, the intruder is revisiting." An Oompa-loompa said from his place near the sonar equipment, his voice betraying his dismay. The commanding officer flashed him an amused look. "Don't be so worried; they won't dare to venture here. I'm sure their vessel wouldn't be able to handle the pressure."

Of that, he was greatly confident. Normally, submarines were designed to dive as deep as 900 feet. Any further, and the vessel would sustain damage from the massive pressure exerted by the waters above. It was for this reason that the Wonka undersea base had been built within the Mariana Trench, thousands of feet below the water's surface, hidden away in a cavelike crevice that had been gouged out of the abyss' side. The Wonka submersibles, created using an alien material, were nearly indestructible; resistant even to the extreme force exerted by the crushing water. They could travel freely through the great depths, their crews unworried by the normal cares of a submariner. And, as their vessels were smaller than ordinary submarines, they were more maneuverable, able to surface, dive, and cut through the ocean faster than the average undersea craft, allowing them to go where no one else could. _Any naval power would be jealous of our abilities,_ the commanding officer thought to himself while he watched his fellow officers work busily at their stations.

The communications officer leapt up suddenly, slamming his hand against a large button marked RED ALERT. The sirens began to go off immediately, and the submarine became alive with the buzz of panicked activity. "What'd you do that for?!" the commanding officer demanded, as the Communications officer ran for the communicator, patching in to the Weapons officer. "The enemy is emptying their ballast tanks!" he explained hastily, "They're diving!"

The captain stared aghast for a moment, then turned as his expression became cold. "If it's a battle they want…" he turned back to the Communications officer, who was speaking in rapid sentences to the other submarines. He turned when he felt his superior tap his shoulder. "What?" The commander looked strangely calm despite the situation, his voice reflecting his appearance. "That submarine has the same dimensions as a ballistic. It may be carrying nuclear missiles. Give orders to evacuate the Base."

"But, sir…" "No!" his voice shook with tension, but his resolve was strong. "Give the orders. I could be wrong… but the Fuhrer is there. I want to take no chances."

The other officer nodded. "Yes, sir." he turned to his controls, speaking with urgency as the first blows from the enemy were felt.

"You must evacuate! Our location has been compromised, I repeat, our location has been…" The Oompa-loompa's cry was cut short by a loud rumble, and the sound of startled Oompas falling to the floor. "What's going on?" the Oompa on the receiving end shouted into the transmitter, throwing Wonka a helpless glance. "We've lost contact, my Fuhrer."

"Impossible, Wonka said hotly, his eyes blazing. "Those submarines are supposed to be indestructible!"

"And they are, sir," the Oompa replied hesitantly, "but the communications devices are not. It is possible that they were destroyed by the initial attack."

"We should be safe to remain, then, "Wonka said lightly, relaxing slightly. The other looked doubtful. "They said to evacuate, my Fuhrer. I think we should listen." Wonka gave him a hard look, but sighed, bowing his head. "Very well. Contact the aircraft carriers; we will need them to collect us on the surface." "Yes, sir. Engaging evacuation procedures."

The large vessel had sunk into the depths, firing the first missile into the darkness. The projectile had exploded sooner than predicted, its shockwave allowing the sonar technicians a brief moment of utter clarity, and verifying that there was indeed something down there… something big. Further and further it descended, until finally, they found the opening to the underwater cave. A confusing battle ensued shortly after; the sub's crew discovered that they were not the only ones who possessed a strong vessel. They fired their missiles into the darkness, relying solely on sonar for targeting purposes until the enemy dealt a counterattack, effectively crippling their ship by destroying the diving planes on its tail. With no maneuverability, the ship's captain knew that all was lost. He sent a final message to base, and gave the suicidal command to the weapons officer.

From within the large vessel, a cylindrical object was ejected from its place by a propulsion system, flying out from its place with a _whoosh_ of bubbles trailing behind. "Goodbye, gentlemen," the captain said to his crew as the nuclear missile hit, filling the cave with bright, radioactive light, destroying everything within it.

The sea's surface roiled with dark, towering waves, the sky above it grey and sunless. It was here that a multitude of submarines broke the surface, their Conn towers rising out of the water like the dorsal fins of some large sea creatures. And out from the top, several figures emerged to take a look at the surroundings, one of which was the tall, purple-clad form of Wonka. "That was a close call, wasn't it, gents?" the Oompas who had come out with him nodded, smiling despite the fact that they had nearly all been obliterated by a radioactive weapon. One pulled a pair of binoculars out from a pocket, directing them toward the horizon. "Look! The carriers are here!"

Once again, Wonka was aboard an interspace vehicle; he and the survivors of the undersea base had boarded the aircraft carriers, and he had left them to make arrangements for their stay aboard the ships. One complained that he might get seasick, to which another retorted that he had lived in the sea all his life and should be anything but seasick. Wonka had inquired about what they would do about the submarines. "You can't just leave them to be found by someone. I can't stand the idea that someone would take a creation of mine and use it for their own dastardly deeds." The Oompas agreed. "I suppose we could take them back to the Antarctic base; though the land segment of it is unreachable due to ice buildup and radiation, the undersea portions are reasonably accessible. The subterranean docking bay could be our temporary base of operations." With this settled, Wonka had gone aboard one of the candy transports that had come as requested, bringing with it more goods, which were now being loaded into the submarines. _We have suffered another blow_, he thought resentfully, an image of Chadworth coming to his mind. _But we can take everything he throws at us. In the end, it will be worth it. _He looked down at the child he held, thankful that he had the mind to retrieve her from the infirmary as the evacuation was progressing. Despite the noise and terrifying prospects of the situation, the young one had slept in his arms, and he had taken comfort from in the fact that they were all safe now.

The sun had set on the horizon, blazing brightly before it faded gradually into black. With the sky dark overhead, pilots had assumed their positions in their respective ships. They performed preflight checks as the carriers' crew cleared them for takeoff.

The Oompa-loompa that piloted Wonka's craft of choice glanced curiously at the child that the Fuhrer held before taking his seat, but he said nothing. Doubtlessly he was wondering what the was up to, bringing a human child to outer space where even fully grown men were susceptible to become helpless. But other than giving a sniff of amusement, he showed no sign of disregard toward the young passenger.

The pilot put slid his headset into place, tapping the earpiece tentatively. "Tower, this is Transport 1, ready to proceed." Wonka watched as the pilot interfaced with the ship's bridge, unable to hear the response because he wore no headset.

The pilot engaged the engines with the flip of several switches, causing a low hum to reverberate throughout the vehicle. With the final press of a button, the hum paused, then returned full force as the ship lifted from the flight deck, achieving vertical takeoff. Wonka glanced out the tiny porthole to his side, seeing that the other transports followed, each engaging their shields as they climbed higher into the atmosphere.

_Seashore Grill, Subterranean Level_

The trucks had come to a halt, and Marcus, following Mitchell, proceeded to assist the unloading of the vehicles. As the people stepped out one by one, they cast bewildered glances about the chamber, undoubtedly noting the layout and inhabitants of this cavern. Once they were all gathered, Marcus raised his voice, calling for attention. "As you all know, Mr. Chadworth's home was destroyed; that is why we have come here. Though his estate was obliterated, we all are still his hired servants, and must care for him."

A confused maid called out. "But where is Mr. Chadworth? What is this place?" Marcus put a hand in the air. "All will become clear soon, I promise you that. Before you learn these things, however, you must rest and eat." He snapped his fingers loudly, and a man dressed in an OD uniform appeared at his side. "This is Sgt. McCullers. He will show you to food and drink, and will make sure you all receive proper accommodations. "But-" "There's no time for questions!" Marcus said, irritation in his voice. The maid flashed him a rebellious look, but she turned to follow after McCullers, who led the people further into the chamber.

Marcus remained by the trucks, watching. Mitchell had sneaked away_, probably to oversee his smuggling business, _Marcus thought derisively. For several minutes, he stayed in place, watching the unscrupulous workers ferrying crates to and fro, his arms crossed in front of him. A familiar voice made him turn, however, and he spun to see JR Chadworth standing behind him. "Mr. Chadworth," Marcus said, bowing with practiced fluidity. Chadworth smiled with embarrassment, but the grin was quickly replaced with a frown. "I'm glad you are here, Marcus. If there was ever a time I needed advice, it is now." Marcus raised an eyebrow. "What is it, sir?"

Chadworth handed him a printout, a report from the looks of it. Marcus took it without reading, knowing that Chadworth would tell him what it entailed. "We had purchased a retired ballistics submarine from the UK, fitting it with a new crew and communications technology." He took a breath, and glanced to Marcus, who stared back, waiting. "They reported some strange readings near the Mariana Islands, just south of Japan. So they went to check it out…" "… and they disappeared." Marcus finished for him. Chadworth shot him a dark look, but he nodded. "So it would seem. But before we lost all contact with them, they sent a final report, something about having to sacrifice themselves to save the corporation, or some nonsense like that." He sighed in infuriation, making Marcus look up from the report, which he had begun to read. "On top of that, he continued, "my home is destroyed. Which reminds me; you have yet to tell me why the self-destruct sequence was activated."

Marcus took a deep breath, turning in his seat in order to meet Chadworth's gaze. "We may have a problem concerning the Federal government…"

_Lunar Base_

The ship entered the docking bay, its shields deactivating with a decelerating whirr as it came to rest on its predesignated place on the landing platform. With a hiss, the exit ramp lowered to the ground, light from the chamber flooding into the craft. The Oompa pilot slid off his headset, turning around to flash Wonka a grin. "Welcome home, my Fuhrer." Wonka stood, the now awake Melissa fidgeting in his arms. He tried to make her still, but the more he attempted, the more she twisted. He finally pulled a small lollipop from his pocket and put it in her mouth; she calmed instantly, distracted by the sweet flavor on her tongue. Looking at her amused face made Wonka smile slightly, and with this contented feeling in mind, he proceeded down the ramp. He had returned.


End file.
